Umm, yeah, please read and please enjoy and please comment.
I implore you
:)
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"Oh...my...golly good gracious." Grace shouted as she stood barefooted in a pair of tiny hot pants and a tank top, the car keys in her hand and her wild black hair telling me she had just got out of bed the second I called her and begged her to come over. Well, what were best friends for?
“I know, I know. This is really bad and…” I reasoned, closing the short and suddenly I realised very thin dressing gown around me, conscious of how my body looked in comparison to hers.
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “No. Okay, leaving your hair straighteners clamped on your hair because you were too busy drooling over some guy on TV is really bad, leaving hair removal cream on for so long that you now have to go out for a hot date with a blister moustache is really bad. But having a,” she waved her hands erratically around like a windscreen wiper in a tornado, “sixty year old man passed out on your floor in nothing but a feather bower and a pair of tube socks…really bad just doesn’t cover it.”
We tilted our heads and stared down at the pasty man curled up in the foetal position, his figure was disguised by his skin as it cascaded down in its saggy state but somehow managing to leave where the lord had split him very visible.
“Do I even need to ask-”
“No, just…just help me do something with him. I can’t be in my apartment right now with him all,” I search for the word, my skin crawls as I register what it was I was prepared to do before he passed out on me, “old and-”
My mouth falls open wide as me and my best friend stare down at the man as he relieves himself on my floor. “Please tell me he did not just piss himself on my floor.”
“Well unless he managed to hide a can of Fanta…” just then another rancid smell erupted from the unconscious man, “Winnie the freaking Pooh.”
“I feel sick.” I heaved resting my head on her shoulder so I didn’t have to look at him.
“He feels shit! Get it?!” She laughs, her shaking causes my head to vibrate and making me feel even more sick “He just shat himself and so now he is touching,” I dry retched at my friend’s enthusiasm, “I mean it’s all over,” I retch again, “You feel shit?”
“Oh, wow Sherlock, you finally picked up on the fact that my retching may be because I don’t feel so well having the guy who I was about to sleep with by the way, and before you say it, yes I know there is at least a 40 year age difference there but you didn’t specify exactly how old “old” had to be, toilet himself on my beautiful, white apartment carpet.” I sighed in frustration, things were so much better before we went out to that stupid club.
She shifted her weight uncomfortably from one foot to another, “I kinda meant; and don’t freak out, that umm, his ‘toilet’ is touching your toe.”
I looked down.
She was right.
My nail varnish stuck out like lily pads in a mud bath.
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