Impractical Jokers Preferences (Currently Updating)

#51: He Calls You Fat (Part 2)

Sal: "You hit him?!" Your best friend questions, interrupting your explanation of the fight you had just had with Sal. "Yeah, I did," you retort, absolute fury in your voice as you think about his words. "If you worked out half as much as you nagged," he had shouted at you, bringing your rage out. "Where are you now?" She inquires concerned. "Walking." "Walking? Walking where? You shouldn't be out this late." "I'm fine," you snap, but she persists. "Tell me where you are I'm coming to get you," she insists. You hear the noise of her keys in the background which meant trying to run from her was not going to work. She would find you. "I'm right outside of the Ferry," you inform her. "How long have you been walking?" She inquires, knowing the distance from that Ferry to Sal's house was quite far. "A while," you answer, looking down at your weary feet. They hurt like heck now that you had stopped your anger walk. "Alright, well, I'm on my way. I'll be there soon." "You crazy freakin' cow!" His words shoot back into your mind immediately after ending your call with her. You had brought him to his breaking point with your so called nagging. But that gave him no right to say the things that he had to you, angry or not. His words were hurtful and you felt you had every right to hit him in return. How else were you going to get him to shut up? You weren't a nag, but your headstrong demeanor often made you come across as such. Sal had addressed your nagging before, but he had never blown up like that. You had never seen him so harsh. But then again you had never hit him in an act of rage before either. This was uncharted territory. Your phone lights up as her car pulls up across the street, motioning you to get in the car. You look down at the screen, pressing ignore quicker than you should have before turning the screen off and running towards the car. "Where to?" She asks as the light in front of her turns green. "I'm not going back there, not any time soon," you tell her, and she nods her head in understanding. She turns the opposite way you had just walked, taking you back to her house to stay. "Has he tried to call?" She asks, pulling back in beside her boyfriend's car in the parking garage. "No," you lie, looking down at your phone to see three more missed calls with just as many voice mails waiting to be ignored.

Brian (Q): You stand in the hallway of his apartment complex, arms crossed, and fuming. How had this even happened? Why had he even brought up his ex? And comparing the two of you, where did that nerve come from? Your back hits the wall as you slide down, colliding with the floor, your arms pulling your knees to your chest. "You're not as skinny as her..." He had just said that, to you. Of all people to say something like that to you it was him. As tears begin to fill your eyes, sadness creeping in, you slowly stand up from your place beside his door. With a firm grip on the knob, you let yourself back in. You look over the first floor, noticing Brian limping to the kitchen, getting ice for the shin you had just kicked you assumed. You go unnoticed as you approach him in the kitchen. After finding an ice-pack in the freezer, Brian turns around to meet your gaze, his immediate reaction being to straighten his posture to prepare for another attack. It wasn't coming though. Not a physical one at least. "You're not going to kick me again, are you?" He questions, concerned for his other shin. "Why?" You begin, trying your best to hold your emotions in long enough to make it through this conversation. "Why, what?" He responds, unsure of what you were trying to ask. "Why did you bring her up?" Your voice calm, only wanting to know why his ex-girlfriend had been the topic of your fight. His head falls, his hand latching to the back of his neck as he rubs his stress deeper. "I was just trying to explain," he answers honestly. "Bullcrap," you counter quickly. "I shouldn't have brought her up like that, yeah, I get that, but you didn't have to attack me like that," he points out. "You haven't answered my question," you raise your voice as he walks around the island and out of the kitchen to open up the space between the two of you. "I was explaining, I told you!" "And you think that's good enough?! You think I'm just supposed to accept the fact that you were comparing us, with me coming out on the end? No Brian, not how this works." "I didn't mean it like that! I was just trying to explain to you why the magazines had been saying what they were." "You don't think I am aware of the reasons Brian? I get it, I'll never be a freakin' dancer, but you aren't supposed to agree with that. You're supposed to be here to comfort me, to love me." By now your emotions were on full display. You shake your head at him as he comes back to you, pulling you into his chest for comfort, just as you had said he should be doing.

James (Murr): "Babe, please," he had called from the other side of the bedroom door. "I'm sorry, can we talk about this?" "You know I didn't mean those things I said, and I know you didn't mean to trash the living room." "Babe?" "Babe, please." That was hours ago though. The bedroom door was still locked and although you had fallen asleep only a little while ago, you hadn't moved from your spot on the bed since slamming the door shut in the last bit of rage you had before everything turned to sadness. That had easily been the biggest fight the two of you had ever gotten in and you hadn't been sure of how to address it. You had ignored everything he had said while standing on the other side of the bedroom door. It had been too soon to talk. The two of you needed your time apart. But now that the sun was coming up, it looked like that time would be coming to an end. Your still swollen eyes flutter open as the light from behind the curtains burns. You quickly roll over to relieve your eyesight. The empty place beside you reminds you of last night's argument. You shake your head at the memories, your hands covering your face and slowly falling, pulling your face awake. You slide over past his side of the bed and roll up out of the bed. You unlock the door, needing something strong from the kitchen to wake you up. You open the door and a heavy weight opens it further. James quickly awakens as he lays face up on the hardwood. "You opened the door," he says, confusion in his tone. "I need coffee," you reply, stepping around him to go to the kitchen. He follows a few steps behind you as you make your way around the breakfast bar to the coffee maker. "When are we going to talk about last night?" He questions, bypassing the barstools and coming to stand directly beside you. "To be honest I don't even know why we were fighting. All I remember is you calling me names, such as a freakin' cow... or a big hog," you remind him harshly. "You know I didn't mean any of that," he laments. "Then why say it? If you didn't mean it why did it come out of your mouth?" You counter, turning to fully face him, wanting an answer. "I was angry, people say messed up junk when they're angry. Apart from you, you punch and slap. But you know I am sorry. You know I would never say anything like that with a clear head." "I had every right to hit you," you acknowledge, ignoring his apology. "I know you did," he agrees before moving over to sit at the bar, giving you space to think about his words.

Joe: The empty container of cookies and cream sits on the nightstand and you are satisfied. "I'll eat freakin' ice cream if I want to," you had told yourself while dipping your spoon back into the pint, the Real Housewives of New Jersey screaming at one another on the television mounted on the wall as you indulged. "What gives him the right to tell me what I should and should not be eating?" "Butthole." You could have done a lot worse to him. A slap in the face was nothing compared to what you thought he deserved. He had called you out on your eating habits, habits you had always had, and thought he was going to get away with it. He was mistaken. You were proud of that swollen cheek he now had. Your job was done. You hadn't been as angry with him as you now thought you should have been. He was looking out for you, this realization hard to accept as you sit up in bed contemplating all the different ways your confrontation with him could have played out. He could have called you names, but he didn't. He had said he didn't want you to get any bigger, possibly insinuating something you didn't even want to allow into your thoughts. As the scenes played out the bedroom door opens. You had forgotten to lock it. You say nothing to him as he walks across the floor, in front of the television, and into the bathroom. Your eye catches his cheek, still very much red and very much swollen. You don't protest when he comes back into the bedroom, pulling the covers back on his side of the bed. You weren't sure why you weren't saying anything. He was lucky you weren't saying anything. He slowly crawls into his space beside you, just waiting for you to kick him out. But when he realizes you aren't going to make him leave he settles into bed. You look over at him, his face facing the other direction. Your eyes immediately focus yet again on his bruising face. You had hurt him. Good.