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 Twenty-Two

“Who stole my Malibu?” Gordo from Lizzie McGuire screamed from the kitchen. It wasn’t actually Gordo from Lizzie McGuire but it makes it easier on everybody if that’s who I tell you who it was.

One of Morgan’s parties. The first one of the year— Halloween or July 4th or something. Whatever yesterday was. Everybody was there: Bryan, Allan, Garrett, Sam, Brett, Morgan, Sarah with an H, Sara without an H, Andrew & Adam, Marco, Taylor, Mike, the girls from Panda Express, Josh, another Josh I didn’t know, tons of people I also didn’t know, and Gordo fromLizzie McGuire were there. All the people, basically. And Carl.

Carl needed me to pick him up. He said he needed a DD— and I wasn’t even planning on going to the party in the first place, actually— but I figured this could be an opportunity to truly disappoint him later in the evening after getting shit-faced, unable to take him home. It was a red-carpet opportunity, almost like ruining a small child’s birthday by telling them they’re ugly. You know what I mean: the afterlife and shit. You know what I mean, right?

So everybody was there and I forgot to mention the guy who does the voice for Little Foot inThe Land Before Time was also there. This actually was (and is) the voice of Little Foot in The Land Before Time so it is (and was) worth noting that he is the person who wakes up and sees that person in a mirror every day.

“We Are Young” by Fun. was playing in the living room and Little Foot was telling me about how he once killed a guy in Russia— “I won’t tell you how or why but I did”— when

“Where is my FUCKING Malibu?”

Who’s hand was I holding? I turned my head a tad to the right so as to not alert the animal—phew, it’s Morgan. Thank God. It’s Morgan. Not Katy, sure, but also not the worst choice to go with. And this was the kind of party where everybody that was there was a friend of mine or a friend of a friend of mine who’s not friends with Katy or friends of friends of Katy’s. So I can, you know… You know what I mean, right? I mean, things aren’t going so well with Katy.

I can do this. I can get away with this, to be a bit more clear. It’s not cheating on Katy. Katy is gone. She went on a date with the Brazilian Alan Thickhole, after all. I can do whatever I want, now. Free pass.

The screaming became less kitcheny as Gordo from Lizzie McGuire staggered into the living room.

“Morgan, somebody stole my fucking Malibu,” he said.

Morgan pulled her hand away from mine and stumbled over to Gordo from Lizzie McGuire. Shit, I thought, she’s stumbling. That means she’s drunk. I don’t think I can do this. I can’t do this. I can’t get away with this.

Sidebar: Why would a 35 year old bring Malibu to a party full of 20 year olds?

Morgan asked Gordo fromLizzie McGuire where he left the Malibu. He said he put it on the counter. Somebody stole it, he said. Somebody stole his fucking Malibu and he wants to know who did it.. He wants to check peoples’ cars. He wants to look in trunks.

One of the Joshes spoke up: “Dude, who could have gotten a bottle of Malibu to their car without anybody noticing?”

Me, I thought. I did. Fuck Gordo from Lizzie McGuire.

“I’m going to call the cops,” Gordo from Lizzie Mcguire said.

“You can’t do that,” Morgan said.

“Why not?” Gordo from Lizzie McGuire said.

“If you do that we’re going to have to kick the high schoolers out.”

Sidebar: Why the fuck were there minors at a party full of drunk 20 year olds?

Gordo fromLizzie McGuire wasn’t ready for that. He walked up to the other Josh. “Did you take my Malibu, bro?”

“No, Josh said, “And back off, bro.” Josh pushed Gordo from Lizzie McGuire away from him as if to say “back off, bro.” Gordo took the inertia he gained from the push and went towards the Panda Express girls.

“Did you see who stole my Malibu?”

“Que?” Carmen said.

And this must have gone on for about ten minutes before he made his way to me.

“Did you steal my Malibu?”

“Ask Carl.”

“Where’s Carl? Carl?”

“He’s the guy I gave a ride here. But he doesn’t have access to my car,” I jingled my keys, “you can check my trunk if you want but it’s not me.”

Gordo from Lizzie McGuire looked me in my Christmas eyes (I’ve got green eyes so when I get high it’s like Christmas).

Be cool, I thought. You got this. You didn’t steal the Malibu so you have nothing to hide. Which wasn’t true, by the way. Not by a long shot; after all, I stole the Malibu based on the principle of the entire matter. After all, what’s a 30 year old doing at a party filled with high schoolers.

He furrowed his brow and moved on.

“Where’s Carl?” he asked Morgan.

She didn’t know. She was actually getting pissed at this point— not at the thief (me), but at the fact that her party was starting to get this awkward vibe where everybody realized they didn’t want to be there anymore except for the high schoolers because, well, alcohol was there. Alcohol is the coolest guy at a party when you’re a high schooler. And this time, the coolest guy was in my trunk.

“Alright,” Morgan called out, stopping all the Fun. “If you’re under 18 you have to leave.”

It took nearly 30 minutes to get all the scoundrels out of the house. In the meantime, Gordo from Lizzie McGuire checked nearly every cupboard in the house for his missing pussy liquor. He should have checked the washer and dryer. Or my trunk.

“Where’s Carl?” he kept saying.

At this point I was kind of worried for Carl— he never told me he was leaving and now it was making sense that he actually left the party. Of course, we didn’t check the washer and dryer for him either— which is where he was later found. But not with the Malibu because that shit was in my trunk. It still is. Hold on.

Okay.

Throughout all this ruckus I forgot about trying to bang Morgan. And, in doing so, Morgan must have forgotten about trying to bang me. The party continued but Gordo fromLizzie McGuirewas angry the entire time. He even got in a fight with Allan.

“I didn’t steal your stupid bitch drink,” Allan had said.

“It wasn’t just a drink. It was a whole bottle you fucking faggot,” he said, throwing a punch at Allan. Of course, Allan’s a marine so he took the punch in stride and didn’t throw one back. Doing that would have meant killing Gordo from Lizzie McGuire or— at the very least— risking his entire military career. Can’t say the same about Gordo from Lizzie McGuire, though. His career ended when I was nine.

Long story short: I didn’t cheat on Katy.

Day Twenty-One

Haven’t been out of the house since Crack-Fest 2014. It was a one-day thing buy my mind is still reeling. I mean, man, I could get a lot of shit done smoking crack. I didn’t get a lot of things done but still, it’s the crack-thought that counts, right?

It made me wonder why stepping on a crack is such a big deal for your mother’s back. What is the correlation between stepping on cracks and my mother’s spinal column? Instead of “step on a crack and break your mother’s back” it should be “knock your mother’s picture over and break your mother’s back”. That makes much more sense to me. I knock my mother’s picture over at least twice a day— sometimes on accident— and nothing bad ever happens to her. Then again, bad things don’t happen to people who are already dead.

Katy and I got in a fight over Skype yesterday. It wasn’t much of a fight, though, since I’m the only one thinking we got in a fight in the first place. She told me she went on a “kinda date” with some guy. The girl said she didn’t even know it was a date until the guy went in for a kiss.

“He doesn’t even speak English, Charlie; don’t worry,” she told me. So I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t worry so well that my internet accidentally turned itself off by itself and we never finished the conversation. That’s how we do passive aggression around here.

So what if he doesn’t even speak English? I consider that cheating. It is cheating so far as I’m concerned. Who the fuck goes on a date with another person when you’re already dating Charlie Brown? Not the future Katy Brown, that’s who.

Morgan’s throwing a party tonight. Going to go to that and see what’s up. Burn off some steam and try to forget all of this. I’m out of weed again too, so maybe somebody can smoke me out while I’m there.

Ugh. Carl is texting me. And Todd called again.