Note: I guess this may be a good preface to my memoir. It's still rather rough, but the structure is there and it can easily be polished into a publishable piece. My brain's just a bit mush at the moment because the final month of the semester has kicked off, and I'm working on a lot of school crap along with this (and many other things). 

Oh, and I also came up with a nickname for my mom's ex: Florida Man. 

“Guess what, Maya?” Mom asked as we made our way to the dog groomers. 

“What?” I yawned. 

“Florida Man hit a new low.” Mom replied. 

“Yeah, and?” I rolled my eyes. 

“He created a website advertising a phage therapy business, so that he can take the money and move to Puerto Rico. He’s using your story to advertise it.”

Hmmm. That’s great.” I shrugged, completely unsurprised, “Is he using my real name?”

“No, he changed it to Mary.”

“Cool. So long as he isn’t using my name, I don’t care.”

“Why not?” Mom asked. 

“Cuz it’s none of my business. There’s nothing I can do about it, legally. Florida Man's bad at money and marketing anyway. So, in short, it’s not good for any of us to lose any peace over your ex’s new failed project.” I said, matter-of-factly, “That said, it’s still incredibly scummy. If there’s a hell, there’s a special place there for people who do things like that.”

“But why don’t you care?” Mom asked.

“What can I do about it?” I replied, “Unless he was using my real name, there ain’t anything I can do. Hell, even if he did use my real name, he’s too broke to sue. It does, however, remind me of why I’m writing my own memoir. To take my story back from everyone who has used it in ways I do not approve of.”

“When is it coming out?” Mom pried. 

“Whenever it’s ready.” I replied.

“When’s that?”

“When I deem it ready.”

“Isn’t it ready now?” 

“What do you think?”

“Yes!”

“No.” I growled. 

“Does my ex’s shenanigans motivate you to finish it sooner than later?”

“I guess…” I trailed off, “I’ve been meaning to add some to it this week. That is, if I find the time.”

“Don’t you have time?”

“I will if I get all of my coursework done by this weekend.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know. Check my calendar.” I said, “Listen, I’m tired. It’s too early for this. I’m gonna bring the dogs into the groomer’s, then we’re going home and I’m going back to bed.” 

With that, the conversation ended. 

As I lay down to snooze to wait for my dogs’ spring grooming session to end, the weight of the situation finally began to sink in. I wasn’t scared or worried. I just felt icky. Like my privacy, once again, had been grossly violated.