Okay, sit the fuck down. You sitting down? Good. Now buckle up, because I got a story. All the different kinds of colours bounced off every bit of the room. The music raged on, and all the party animals danced to it. Mostly just sheep, and some seals. Here I am, bored off my ass at this dull party at the ripe age of twenty-three, with shit music and even shittier people. Just locking eyes with anyone that’s useful in this sorry excuse for a party.

“Jameson, on the rocks.” I said, as I handed the bartender my card.

So I’ve been here for a total of one hour and twenty-two minutes and I’m already ready to shoot myself in the head. Twelve minutes in, a girl knocked her drink into me and apologised with an insincere ‘whoops’. She was wearing a black cocktail dress that seemed to be working overtime. If you could only see this dress, working so hard like it had a family of five to feed. Twenty-two minutes in, a dude wearing a denim jacket was shouting shots. He was doing an Oprah bit where he would literally just scream out while pointing at everyone.

          “You get a shot! You get a shot! You get a shot! Everyone gets a shot!” Douchebag yelled.

So this is where the story gets dragged into a ruthless shit storm. The bartender started making all these shots right. Everyone’s screaming and shit, ready to get smashed. This stranger’s shouting shots, so why argue? Who doesn’t like freebies? The bartender lined it all up, all twenty-three shots, perfectly filled to the brim in a smooth lacquer. The stranger… you know what, for the sake of the story, I’ll refer to this guy as Douchebag. Cool? Cool. Don’t blame me, I don’t remember this guy’s name. So anyway, Douchebag starts pumping everyone up, and even I got into it. We’re all holding out shots, and Douchebag starts roaring and roaring. So it becomes involuntary, we all start roaring like retarded fucking seals.


Shit was crazy, bunch of seals jumping around, music pumping. Some sheep watching from a distance. I actually started to have fun at this place. Wait for it. Douchebag puts his arm around me, and takes a huge sigh of relief.

          “Bro, this is the fucking life isn’t it?”
I nodded.

          “I’m Douchebag by the way, nice to meet you bro!”
I nodded again.

Then out in the cliche distance, I saw a familiar face. Squinting and greasing, I couldn’t tell for sure but I swear she looked familiar. But worst fucking timing to zone out, because Douchebag’s arm was still around my shoulder, which gave indication to the bartender that we were mates. So while I’m dozing out in the distance, high off my eighteen month dry spell, the bartender reaches in to speak to Douchebag.

“Aye man, that’ll be $187.97. Same card as before?” The bartender asked.

          “Yeah bro, cheers.” Douchebag responded.

In Douchebag’s defence, he was so smashed that he probably just heard a verbal vomit of grunts. But yeah, you guessed it. It was my fucking card. Mine. So I’m about two hundred dollars down, because I accidentally just shouted twenty-three seals a shot each of jager. To make it even worse, those twenty-three seals were praising Douchebag. They thought he fucking shouted! So, all I’m thinking is, fuck this shit. I want to go home. But first, I needed to pee.
As I stumbled around, in search of a bathroom I went through the five stages of grief in club manoeuvring. Stage one: Denial. Staring at this sea of people dancing about, not knowing where the hell to start in this maze. Stage two: Anger. The wave of a thousand excuse me’s. Step three: Bargaining. Starting to wonder stupid things like, ‘I don’t really have to pee…I’ll go later’. Stage four: Depression. The moment of complete and utter sadness. All the bitterness I’ve encountered, all the salty remarks I’ve received. It all hits at once because at this moment in time, this dance floor is in the way between myself and relief. Stage five: Acceptance. The moment I finally find the bathroom only to realise there’s a line but I’m okay with that now. Suddenly, there was a tap on my shoulder. I’m going to lose my shit if it’s the denim douche again. I turned to face him.

          “Remember me? Beth? From Primary!” She asked ecstatically.

“Hey yeah, I remember you Beth! You’ve changed so much!”

Ah Beth, the girl who was so strong she could punch a guy in the stomach hard enough to piss himself, and have the entire third grade class laugh their asses off at the sight and force him to run home and cry. She was awesome. She sounded different though. Can’t really expect her to sound the same as when she was in the third grade though, that’d be retarded. We talked for hours on end. For a while, she made me forget about my encounter with Douchebag. Suddenly, the place wasn’t so crappy anymore. We talked so much I guess I’ll just point out the three best parts.
One: I found out she was sad about having to move away during high school because she wanted to date me.
Two: having to move away during high school because she wanted to date me.
Three: she wanted to date me. 

          “Here’s my number. Maybe we can meet sometime! You better call me or I’ll make you piss your pants again!” She said, as she kneeled in for a goodbye.





Finally returning home, I rushed to bed in excitement. That night I couldn’t sleep. Even though a yawn would escape, one after the other, I still couldn’t sleep. I always had the worst luck when it came to sleeping. I mean I loved doing it, it was just hard to actually fall asleep. Just look at my resume of unfortunate events, that bar incident is at the top of the list. With a passion, I don’t trust people who can fall asleep at the click of a finger, at the sudden shut of their eyelids. It’s unnatural. Don’t trust those people, they’re probably into some weird shit. But me? Falling asleep takes an average of eight hundred and seventy two sleeping positions, a trip downstairs for some water, milk and cigarettes and a sacrificial ritual to the gods. I turned to my side, the other side, even flipped the pillow to the cool side. No effect. I opened my eyes to see darkness, but not a pitch black darkness. I could see the ceiling, the shape of the lightbulb, my slightly opened wardrobe. I heard a light rattling sound coming from under my desk. Fuck, must’ve dropped something again. 1:49am. I felt the same as I did an hour ago, and an hour before that. I went downstairs for a glass of water, in the hopes that hydration was the key to a good night’s rest. I went outside for a cigarette, in the hopes that I’ll be calm enough to fall asleep. I returned to my bedroom to try a second time. I turned to the side of my window, embraced my pillow tightly and shut my eyes. No effect. I fell stomach flat, head turned to the left, my right arm dug in the pillows above me and my left resting under the blankets. A yawn came out, and another after that. And another. There it was again, that fucking rattling sound. I thought to myself, ‘well fuck, am I gonna have to all-nighter again?’ I can’t afford to do that. I’ve got to be awake at 7:00am later today for a nine-to-five shift. I shut my eyes one more time. 2:22am. Shit, this is going nowhere. I decided to turn on my TV. One more episode I thought. The screen’s bright light blinded me for a couple moments, moments of pure agony. As I prepared my episode, I heard it again. The fucking rattling sound. Only this time, I had the light shining brightly. I saw it. I wish I hadn’t seen it but I most definitely fucking saw it. A rat. A huge fucking rat. It scurried away back under my mattress. My first thought was, how the fuck did it get upstairs?! Now I’m definitely not sleeping tonight. My next thought was, how do I get out of here? I slowly grabbed my phone, stood up on my mattress and ran for my dear life, bolting out of my own room. I think I’ll just sleep downstairs. Fuck this shit, room’s yours you stupid rat.

          “Morning, sunshine.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Douchebag?” I yelled in a mixture of fear and panic.

          “We crashed here bro, we had a pretty sick night man.” Douchebag yawned.

“We did? We-you know what, I’ll talk to you about this later, I gotta do something.”

Entering the other room for some privacy, and Douchebag is already knocked out again not two minutes into being awake. Searching through my phone to call Beth, wait, what? Douchebag. Goddamn fucking Douchebag changed all my contact names into Game Of Thrones characters. How the hell am I going to call Beth now. I fell to the ground and sat pathetically with my phone hanging from the fragile cliffs of my fingers. Doesn’t matter, I still have to call her somehow. I can probably do this. How hard can it be?

“Hello, Jon Snow..?”
          “Who the fuck is this?!”

          “Dude I’m at work.”
“Oberyn… Martell?”
          “I will hear you say it!”

“Hey… uh The Hound?”
          “Dumb… cunt.”

“Samwell… Tarly?”
          “Oh my…”
Boop. Sigh, I’m going to be here awhile.

Several characters later, I was ready to give in. Done. Finito. Ejecto Seato. Suddenly, an incoming call. Caller ID: Tormund Giantsbane.

          “Thought I shouldn’t give you the chance of flaking on me again.” She laughed.

I laughed nervously.

          “Anyway, I gotta go to work now. Let’s have dinner next week. Bye!”


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