The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. -Harriet Beecher Stowe

Evie threaded her way through the rows of tombstones, carrying the bouquet of red roses she'd picked up on her way over. She wasn't the only one here today; there was a man a few rows over, and two women stood several rows ahead of her, holding their own bouquets. Her father would come later, she knew, but this was her time.

She'd sit in the grass for a few hours and tell her mother everything that was going on in her life: her dreams, her fears, her hopes, and her regrets. Then she'd go home and cry on Louise's shoulder until her throat ached and she had no tears left. Then next year she'd come back and do it all over again.

She didn't know how not to do it.

Evie knelt down in the grass and brushed the leaves and stray branches away from the marble, laying the roses across the weather-worn gray stone as she spoke, unable to keep her voice from hitching on the last word as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her face.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom..."

1. Bad tippers.
2. Ass-grabbing customers.
3. My cheating asshole of an ex-boyfriend. Dammit, I liked that couch.
4. My whore of an ex-roommate. All the single men in Chicago, but nooo, bitch just had to have mine.
5. Cancer. It destroyed my family. And that sucks.
6. Seeing my friends in pain.
7. The guy in the Mercedes who almost hit me while I was walking to the El station this afternoon because he was on the phone. Hang up and drive, asshole.
8. Hunting for an apartment and a roommate in LA. Seriously considering New York instead.
9. Being told I can't do something because I'm a girl.
10. People assuming I don't understand stuff because I'm 'too young'. Yeah, I'm only 19, but I understand more than people give me credit for.

So you want to know what I'm looking for in a significant other. It's kind of hard to explain, since I haven't actually had one. I thought I did, but...okay, you need a little backstory on the last guy I dated.

I met Brad down at the bar where I work. I sling drinks 6 nights a week, and two or three of those nights, they let me up on stage to play and sing a few sets. It works out okay, most of the time. Sometimes not so much. St. Patrick's Day was pretty bad with quarter beers and drunker assholes with grabbier hands than usual, but most nights, it's not so bad. And speaking of bad, back to Brad.

When you spend most of your time around drunk assholes with wandering hands, your standards for what you'll date decrease exponentially. Anyone who isn't drunk and greets you with more than a "'nother round for me an' th'boys, would ya, dollface?" starts to look like a prince. Or at least something resembling a decent guy.

And that'd be where Brad comes in.

Built, blond hair, brown eyes, tall. I'd show you a picture, but I burned them all. Anyway, long story short, we dated for 3 months. Until the night he told me he couldn't come to my gig because he had to work, and I got home early to find him and my (now ex) roommate having sex on our living room couch. Okay? So I don't know anything about significant others, obviously, cause I thought Brad was and...well...you know the story. But I know what I want.

I want someone who's passionate about...something. I want someone who understands what my music and performing mean to me. I want someone who understands my job. I work in a bar. Getting groped is a given - and I'd be pretending it was him, anyway. I want someone I can talk to about anything, and who will be honest with me and won't cheat on me. And I wouldn't complain if he was good-looking too.