Ocean Blue Eyes

The Shit I Gotta' Deal With

Picture of the house living room 👆🏽
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    I woke up in the afternoon feeling mortified at the stupid shit I pulled last night. I dreaded the idea of striking a conversation with Iris again, scared of what my tongue could do—no, not that, you nasty...

    I would've probably adopted a freaking Turkish accent next and said something worse than mixing up an idiom with a sexual innuendo. But I didn't... I think.

I hope...

    Ever since I woke up and remembered that we'd exchanged numbers I'd laid there in bed with my phone in my hands while my thumbs did that weird dance they did when I can't think of a way to start up a text. Since it didn't make a difference whether drunk or sober, I wasn't sure I was safe even through messages. The most I'd sent was a quick heads up about us being home and I haven't replied to him since...

    Ugh, I curse again at my stupid tongue action from yesterday. Just remembering again makes me set the phone down and curl myself into a ball. Something that didn't last for long. Why? Well...

    Cause there's more shit I gotta' deal with thanks to Carter, literally. So, quick story time:

    What do you do when you feel like you deserve something?

    "You treat yo'self, fool!" as Carter said a few moments back when he bursts into my room, while I'm still a hungover self-loathing burrito in bed, and dives at me like a fucking quarterback making a touchdown.

    And, so, that's exactly what we did.

    It's past three, and Carter and I decided to let Taco Bell nurse our hangovers, cause we deserve that shit...

    So, we sat there, in the parking lot, with two steak quesadillas, two soft shell tacos, one Mexican pizza and a bottle of Sprite—each.

    Pause. Yeah, yeah, I know we're fat-asses, ssshhh, I don't need your negativity right now.

    Anyway, we freaking destroyed the heck out of that. Not gonna' lie Taco Bell definitely has a way of dealing with hangovers. But of course, everyone knows that no good medicine comes without side effects...

    So, on our way back home, we're joking around when the ride goes dead silent in the intermission between one song ending, before the next one follows, as if adding a dramatic effect to a stupid comedy show— you hear our stomachs fucking rumble. The sound of doom makes us slowly turn to each other with mirroring looks of horror before the cold sweats start and the painful need begins to spread across our guts.

    This must be how Melissa McCarthy must've felt during that bridesmaids scene...

    "Shit," We say, as if commanding the brewing volcanoes going off at the pit of our stomachs to hold on for dear life. Meanwhile, Carter floors the gas, shrinking the minutes left 'til home.

    Fast forward to where I'm stubbing my toe at the entrance of the house as Carter pushes me out of the way and races me to the first floor bathroom. Knocking down anything near us as we fight our way there.

    I didn't even have it in me to fear the thought of Megan seeing us walking in with our shoes still on. At the moment, the fear knocking on my backdoor was far greater than that midget's roundhouse kicks.

    Besides, it's not the worse the place has seen. Honestly, I'm surprised the house's still standing with the shit we've put it through.

    Two years ago, when Carter turned twenty-one we had Low Income Housing as a research topic in one of our papers. At the time, we were living at the dorms for about two years already. Carter had the brilliant idea to apply during the project to use our exchanges as our research instead of lazily searching for shit online.