It's been a year since Clay, otherwise known as Porkchop, planned the graduation event in Newport Beach. The event where a handsome Tyler Hamilton caught Clay off guard by kissing him. Clay, up until that day, had never kissed a boy before.
At 24 ye...
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WEENIE. Weenie, weenie, fucking weenie.
"I belong at Weenie Hut Jr's, don't I? Wheel me of to Weenie Hut General for motherfucking brain damage," I said, poking my forehead before nearly slamming my head down on the countertop.
"He's really going at it today, isn't he?"
"A pity. A real pity."
I snapped my head up, glaring into the phone screen at Alex and Jesse, both of them staring at me over FaceTime, heads tilted, concerned.
"I don't need you to fucking pity me," I snapped. I reminded myself to take in a deep breath, to calm down, or else I was going to snap at the people who cared about me over FaceTime, when they didn't deserve that. "Yes, I'm going at it today, because clearly, I am a fucktard."
"You're not a fucktard," Alex said.
"Yeah, you're just–"
"Brain-dead?" I interrupted.
Alex looked at me like she was about to scold me. And that's because she was. "Tyler Hamilton, you did not wake up this morning just to talk down on yourself, and self-sabotage yourself."
"I'm not self-sabotaging, I've already done that–"
"And you're doing it again," Jesse said. "Ty, sometimes it's okay to acknowledge you belong at Weenie Hut Jr's, but sometimes you've also gotta see that you're better than that."
"So explain it to me then, fucking Ghandi," I said, leaning forward. "How am I better than a weenie when I couldn't even open my mouth and be like, 'No Clay, it fucking sucks that your parents treat you like shit and don't love you for who you are, but you know what? It doesn't even matter because I love you, I fucking love you'."
It drove me crazy. I seriously drove myself crazy.
Clay was the lowest I'd ever seen him. I wasn't even aware that he could feel that bad, or get that obviously upset, until it happened. He was so silent on the drive to his old high school, and completely mute when we got there. He grabbed a ball and chose to lie down on the linoleum floor, and I laid next to him. We were there for hours before and after we finally talked about it.
If one thing was fact, it was that Clay didn't deserve the bullshit his parents pulled with him. It filled me with rage, the kind of rage that sent me to fucking therapy in the first place. It was so difficult to hold myself back because I would have punched his dad if I had the opportunity. I would have yelled even more than I already had. And I know I'd yelled a lot, gotten a lot off my chest that pissed me off about what they did, and were doing, to Clay. But I could have said so much more.
I clenched my fists. Getting worked up just thinking about it.
And on top of that, I was dwelling on my dumb-assery. I deserved an award.
