Playing the Part

1. should we get cable?

Allie

There is something so cathartic about hating something.

It's like having an orgasm. You feel this hard, angry knot forming in your chest and the only way to untangle is being very vocal about it.

I, for one, have never missed a single instalment of the Twilight series. Being the uncultured dumbass that I am, I've only recently started jumping onto the vampire bandwagon. But after watching all five movies, I am almost positively positive that anyone who enjoys them are either very sentimental or very much on drugs.

But sometimes (when you catch me on a good day), I like to turn off my brain and just revel in the stupidity.

"Huh, have you ever seen Captain America in a rom-com?" Alistair Strauss, my partner in crime, yells from the couch while filing through Netflix's bottomless selection of movies.

"Dunno. Figured he landed his role as Captain Sweetass fresh out of the womb." It's hard to recall things that happened three years ago but special memories like Alex shitting herself the first night of college because she ate a suspicious-looking omelet her twin brother, Conor,  made are kept in very safe places in my brain.

That was just a sliver of who - no, what - Alex is around me.

"I wanna find something really bad. Like a-million-plot-holes-that-have-no-reasons-to-exist bad. The last few movies weren't even that bad. Hell, some were even good." Bound by a blood pact, we dedicate every one of our Fridays to making fun of movies.

"I know. You should consider cancelling your subscription. Should we get cable?" I toss a bag of raw popcorn into the microwave.

"And watch Ninja floss to New York pedestrians? I mean I want something bad, not cancerous. Ooh how about What Happens in Vegas?" I squint to look at the screen of the TV Conor had installed for us a few years ago.

"Cameron Diaz and oh my god, is that Ashton Kutcher?" The microwave dings and I pinch the bag out of it.

"Terrible casting. We're off to a great start." Alex sings as I plop down next to her.

But before she could even press the play button, the doorbell rings a thousand times. Alex and I share a look of annoyance because it could be none other than Conor and the crew.

"God, I'm coming. Jeez." I yell before opening the door to find a highly intoxicated Everett slouched over Conor and Leon's shoulders.

"Who is it this time?" Alex exclaims from the couch with a mouth full of popcorn.

"Everett? Jesus what happened?" His eyes are glazed over, shirt soiled, dark hair tousled and disheveled, and he smells fucking putrid. But his usual handsome profile and sharp jaw are still very noticeable.

"Tori broke up with him." Leon, the one who usually winds up in Everett's position, explains.

"Fuck her!" Everett half slurs and half yells in response while fighting to stay conscious.

Tori Bloy is a rich, show-stoppingly gorgeous nepo-baby who managed to not only land herself on the women's gymnastics team but - through the power of her dad being Elo's dean - become a regular competition go-er when she's never stuck a single landing. Ever.

And she's also been dating Elo's star hockey player. Up until two minutes ago.

"Thanks ladies. We owe you one." Conor, (usually) the responsible one, drops Everett onto the welcome mat like he's a FedEx delivery and hurries off back to the party.

The boys are partially obliged to drop off a single drunk person amongst themselves at our apartment every week because their off-campus party house is right around the corner of our street. And we're very much obliged to take care of them in exchange for free rent. Which initially felt like a steal (because in this economy?!) but I'm less sure about it everyday.

"I did last time! It's your turn missy."

I gasp. "As if! I did it the last time! Remember when Leon-"

"- drunk pissed all over the bathroom floor last week?" We say in unison and the realisation hits me.

"Fuck, yeah. It was you."

Alex blows me kisses and says, "don't be mad at me I still love you", as I drag a six two, fully comatosed Everett into the bathroom. 

"You've got such heavy bones." I mutter to myself. But I know it isn't his bones that are heavy; it's the fact that he is 180 pounds of pure toned muscles.

He drags a lazy palm down his face, groaning, when I tell him I'm about to take his shirt off. "You're so good to me." He mumbles incoherently.

"I know," I say and get up to fetch him a hoodie, a pillow and some (possibly) puke-stained sheets Everett had brought over at the beginning of the year just in case he needed to stay the night. But it was left completely untouched until tonight.

Piss drunk was never Everett's signature move because he (quote) wanted to stay sober for his dick. But piss drunk was always Leon's move because he (quote) wanted to get drunk for his dick.

The hoodie is a size too small for Everett but I fit it over his head then his long torso nonetheless and decide to leave his arms tucked in as an act of pay back for ruining my Friday night for this.

I then lay the sheets over the bath tub that Alex insists I never use because she'd learned once in a tweet that bacteria and dead skin are almost always embedded in them and I'd really prefer not to wear Barbara from the 90s like a skin-suit.

The tub is also almost half Everett's length but I'm sure his physical therapist can fix him up later.

"Sweet dreams buddy." I switch off the bathroom lights just as he starts snoring into nirvana.