Day Thirty-Nine.

Another one of Morgan’s parties. This one was the celebration of Christmas or Summer solstice— whichever would have been more appropriate for tonight. Goddamn, I am drunk. Everybody was there, again— except for the Mexican girls that work at the Panda Express.

And I had to go to Morgan’s party this time. It was either that or sleep in my car. Well, I’d sleep in my car anyways but Chaz-hands said the chinchillas had fleas so he had to bug bomb Apartment J last night.

I didn’t notice the fleas, but then again, I didn’t notice our place was being bug bombed until I was laying in bed and Chaz-hands called my cell phone. And did you know that we have chinchillas? I had no ideas we had chinchillas until yesterday. I thought they were cats.

What a party, though. Just a frickin’ hootenanny to end all hootenannies. Didn’t get laid— again— but I was the guy who cock-blocked himself this time, so it should be understandable. Still got a blowjob, though.

Oh, yeah. I guess I cheated on Katy.

This party was different and not just because there were no high schoolers or failed Disney stars present; this time Morgan had a boyfriend. And this time the two of them were fighting.

“Go fuck yourself,” she yelled.

“You’re a retarded bitch,” he yelled. What was his name again? Oh yeah, it was Carl. Yes, in this day and age where everybody is going deaf and blind from facebook, smartphones, and loud music, Carl was still able to keep the fact he had two girlfriends a secret from each other.

“I’m kind of seeing Morgan,” he told me in the car before we got there. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not going to say anything to Jay,” I said. Carl lifted a balled fist. “Or Morgan.”

“Good,” he said.

“You have to do me a favor, though,” I said.

“What is it bro?”

“I’m drunk,” I told him, speeding through a red light. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Anyways, back to the party:

“What have I done wrong?” Morgan asked.

“You’re being loud and retarded and so are your friends,” he said.

“It’s the Fourth of July,” she said.

“That doesn’t matter; you’re being embarassing,” he said.

“It’s my house,” she said.

“You’re stupid when you’re drunk, regardless of where you are.”

“You’re being a dick and you won’t even drink with me.”

“I’m going to be taking shots of Malibu soon you fucking retard.”

“You’re the retard who takes shots of Malibu, dick.”

This went back and forth for, quite literally, an hour. I sat and watched most of the time in between taking shots of Carl’s Malibu. The man had none left by the time he walked out.

“Fuck this and fuck you, bitch,” he said, leaving through the front door.

“He’s being a dick,” we all told her in all the ways people can— in between sobs.

“I just,” she paused, “need a cigarette and a beer,” she said. I had both ready— for myself, sure, but I wasn’t going to let my selfishness get in the way of my selfishness. In fact, I was going to use it to my advantage.

I flashed a beer and my box of cigs. “Lets go,” I said.

And what can I say— opportunity strikes when the iron’s hot on the door.

“I like him but I don’t love him,” Morgan told me on the patio. It was just the two of us— none of the other savages.

“There’s a reason you’re so broken up about this, though,” I said.

“Okay, so maybe I love him a little. But still…” she trailed off.

“He’s nice, I mean, he can be a nice guy,” I lied through the smoke.

“But why does he have to be such a dick?”

“We’re guys. It’s a communication thing.”

“But he’s such a dick.”

“Sure he is,” I said, wanting to tell her about the crack-apple incident and the fact that he was cheating on her. Or, rather, with her.

“You’re such a good friend, Chuck,” she said, squeezing my free hand (that should have had a beer in it). Here it goes, I thought. This is my in.

Most guys think the friend zone exists. Well, let me tell you: it doesn’t. Because if it did then that friendly squeeze would have been the end of this post. But it’s not, so it isn’t.

We talked some more. And then danced. And then danced some more. And then made out. And then made out some more. And then blowjobbed.

“What about my boyfriend,” she said in between fatty slurps.

“What about him?” I said. After all, what about him? He’s cheating on her and— spoiler alert— they’re still together after all this. I’d tell Jaye but this is her first boyfriend and she’s a mormon; I can’t shit all over her. Somebody else can do that for her. Somebody like Carl or Carl.

I needed to keep her from stopping the suckfest. So I made her feel comfortable: “What about my girlfriend?”

Gosh, I forgot to mention Todd was at the party before all of this. Doesn’t matter how many phone calls you ignore— it’s hard to ignore a person in person without being blind, deaf, or Phil. Todd was in the backyard, nursing a beer in a Canadian chaise lounge. And I when I saw him it was too late to pretend I didn’t.

“Sup, Todd,” I said.

“Hey Charlie.”

It was really boring. We caught up on stuff that wasn’t me getting a conejob— mostly because neither of us knew I was about to get a conejob. And speaking of smoking pole, Todd had been in contact with Leo.

“This guy called me last night and offered me a five finger discount with his mouth.”

“Yeah I gave your phone number to a drug dealer.”

Todd laughed it off. He thought I was joking. Good, now I can tell him the rest of the truth: “Dude, I just ignore your phone calls because you’re an annoying pussy zombie.”

Todd kept laughing.

“Even more so,” I said, “I just hate your fucking guts and want you dead. You’re just an intellectually vanquished vegetable of a person. I forgot about you until just this moment when I thought about all of the people that I’m glad will never remember who I was in high school. May your dull, insipid life continue until at least the first reunion. You may be unable to hear all of us make fun of you behind your back since you’ll probably be stuffing as many dicks into your face as possible five years from now, but may you shine your brightest until then.”

Todd stopped laughing.

“You may ask yourself “why would somebody say that about me”. I’m saying it about you because I can’t say it to you. Saying something directly to your face would put any man at risk of contracting HPV. And we’re only supposed to carry it.”

And then I realized Todd was there. I meant to say that on my blog and not directly to his face.

Anyways, back to getting my gherkin slurped.

“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop?” I whispered into Morgan’s ear.

“Mffw,” she tried.

“Don’t stop sucking, just tell me how many goddamn licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop.”

That’s right, baby, I thought. We’re mining for tonsils tonight..

After my turn in the barrel, Carl came storming into the party around 11PM after most people had gone home. He had Morgan’s phone with him.

“This bitch— this retarded bitch has been cheating on me,” he announced to me, Morgan, and Littlefoot.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

Carl threw a cell phone down on the ground.

“She’s been texting somebody all night!” he screamed.

“Where’s the proof then?” Morgan asked.

Carl looked down at the smashed to bits phone on the ground. He said nothing. He just started to tear up.

“Carl,” I said, “Was that phone all the proof you had?”

He looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or vomit.

“Carl,” I said, “Was that your phone?”

He nodded his head, covering his mouth with one of his slimy cheating hands.

“Carl,” I said, “Did you just break your phone?”

He nodded again.

Carl, in a fit of drunkenness, thought that he had Morgan’s phone and that Morgan all the scandalous text messages on the phone were hers. But, in all actuality, he had his phone andhe was the one sending scandalous text messages out. He was that drunk.

“I’m taking Carl home,” I told Morgan. I sobered up with a couple of bowls and we went on our way, nary a word the rest of the night from Morgan, Carl, or Littlefoot.

Katy can’t find out about this. I almost want to drink so much more…or smoke more…Just enough to forget about this so I can’t find out about this in the morning. What was I thinking? I love Katy. I’m not over a relationship with her; I’m just unhappy with it right now. I can’t let something that was like fucking a grapefruit get in the way of our relationship. By the way, getting a blowjob from Morgan was kind of like fucking a grapefruit, I guess.

Goddammit. Nobody can find out about this. Goddammit.

And we haven’t even finished bug-bombing but I don’t give a shit– I need to sleep in my own bed tonight. This morning. Whatever.

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Day Thirty-Seven (2).

Leonard came over after work to sell me some weed, not gay blowjobs— although I’m sure I could have swung one of those in there by the end of our unspectacular transaction. I called Leonard up a couple hours ago and he started to tell me about all the kinds of weed I can buy from him.

“I’ve got all the fatty purps,” he told me, “Afghan Kush, A.K., Alaskan Thunderfuck. Those are just the A’s, too”

“Indo-China Pussy Hash?”

“Tons of it,” he said, which was a little weird because I made that shit up, but I’m a sucker and was pretty much sold at that point.

“Bring some of that shit over,” I said. “Lets talk homework.”

So Leonard came over with a duffel back filled with all types of weed. It was a nice duffel bag and the weed wasn’t too bad either. But more about the duffel bag: it was an old one from my old high school.

“I didn’t know you went to Tesoro,” I said.

“I went for like half a year and then got expelled for selling pot out of this duffel bag.”

“And they let you keep the bag?”

“Sure did. It’s my lucky bag now.”

I don’t consider luck being expelled, but then again I don’t consider luck to be your first drug dealer not named Aaron either. “It’s the little victories, Leonard,” I said, “Good for you.”

Leonard wasn’t nearly as shifty as Aaron 4 but he is still a pretty shifty fuck. All drug dealers are shifty and I was actually hoping he would be on the lower scale of shifty by the end of the drug dealing. But, just as he was leaving, Leonard let something slip that I can’t let go. In fact, I may find another deal because of it:

“Later Leo,” I said as he left Apartment J. “That was a good drug deal,” I said, giving him a low-five.

“Yeah man, no worries,” he said.

“See you at work on Monday— just don’t bring that red duffel bag around.” It was a joke. But he stopped walking at looked at his slung duffel.

“Oh, it’s red?” he asked.

“School colors, broseph,” I said.

“I’m color blind,” he said. And like, be color blind all you want but the bag says “Titan Red” on the fucking side. Holy shit.

“Really?” I feigned, “That’s funny, Leonard.”

Leonard chucked, “I’m not joking though. It sucks.” And off he went. Honestly, I don’t know how I felt hearing Leonard was colorblind; he just spent so much time telling me how the Jamaican Pig-Fuck I bought from him had all the “fatty purps”. That bothered me. But it was the last thing he called out to me from downstairs that really got my goat.

“Hey, if you need a blowjob, give me a call after eleven but before three.”

“What?”

“I’ll blow you til your dick is red.”

I gave him Todd’s number.

Day Thirty-Seven.

After losing Aaron 4 I’ve had a bit of a hard time finding my own personal dealer of drugs. And after losing Phil I’ve kinda felt less comfortable about chugging robitussen. Can’t really trust that Klaxxon-Smith shit anymore, you know? And all the medical marijuana clinics have been moved out of Lake Forest and Laguna, so I’ve been kinda screwed there.

Leo stopped by my desk today, however, and left me a note. It said “Mr. Nice Guy” and had a phone number listed. “Gimme a call,” he said, “you know, if you’re either into that shit.”

Either he’s trying to sell me pot or it’s gay blowjobs.

Guess I’ll find out tonight.