It’s been three weeks since I moved back in with my parents for summer, and I don’t know how I did this for the first eighteen years of my life. Yesterday I almost got walked in on while I was jerking off and in a state of total desperation, I threw Mike Lupica’s Heat over my cock, which led to a conversation with my Dad about challenging myself to read more mature novelists. I’ve been getting shifts as a waiter at a place down the street, my boss is pretty chill, but I’m an atrocious employee. Today they have me coming in at three, which means I’ll wake up at nine hungover from pounding seventeen lukewarm Bud Lights in my friend’s basement, go home, watch half an episode of South Park, and go back to sleep.
I wake up at 12:30 with the beer shits. I hear, tell me your ex was toxic without actually telling me your ex was toxic from the bathroom my sister and I share, and I’m forced to pick the lesser of two evils: I can go downstairs where my Dad will comment on my sleep schedule for the third time this week, or I can wait out my sister beating forty dollars of Sephora on her face. I choose the latter and walk back into my room. I open up Tinder and begin swiping. I’m long past hesitating about swiping right on girls I know are catfishing me with Snapchat filters. I’ve learned at a young age that Tinder is a place for hot girls to boost their self-esteem and a place where girls I wouldn’t typically find attractive in a bar setting to thrive. I’m mid-way through looking through Harry Raftus’ Tik Toks (a guilty pleasure I allow myself to indulge in once every couple of months) when Morgan♒ messages me, “Hi Cutie.” I quickly look through her profile and notice that she is a 4/20 friendlyyyy Aquarius. It’s time to put in work. After a quick google search, I find out that I’m an Aries and I realize that if there’s any chance in hell I’m going to get to see Morgan♒ ‘s titties, I have to find out whether or not we are comparable because she bases her life decisions off a fictional pseudoscience.
As I’m grinding the best I can on two bars of 4g, I hear a knock at my door, and my Mom slithers in “What in the f-ing hell is this?” she says as she raises up a knockoff puff-bar I purchased for twelve dollars at a gas station in the town over from me. “Oh, that is Brain’s vape. He must have left it at our house,” I respond in a defeated voice because I know where this is going. “Why would Brian’s vaporizer be in our dryer?!”
After hearing about my family’s history with addiction for twenty-three minutes, I finally have the opportunity to shit, shower, and shave. I’ve gotten really into podcasts recently. Listening to house music doesn’t hit the same when the only thing that’s gone up your nose this week is Flonase because you’re really allergic to your sister’s cat, she claims helps her “overcome insomnia.” I’m going to need to be on my feet for the next six hours, so despite how bad I want to get the fuck out of my house, I hit my Mom’s crockpot hard. Sausage and peppers? Next question. I crush two bowls in my kitchen as I tell Morgan♒ I want her to sit on my face.
Work goes okay. I make eighty-four dollars in six hours and find fifteen minutes to scroll Twitter. The Detroit Lions are getting canceled for hiring Anthony Lynn as their offensive coordinator. Apparently, since he was hired to work under a white coach, this means that the Lions endorse racism despite Lynn’s 7-9 record last year with the Chargers. I sigh and check GroupMe to see what my boys from college are doing. Max got six months of probation, Ethan cheated on his girlfriend, and Sam tore his ACL falling down the stairs of a bar last night- same shit, different day. My boys from high school are meeting up for drinks at B-dubs to watch the Sixers-Hawks game, so I clock out and head to catch a ride with my friend’s little brother, who just got his license. Our table at Buffalo Wild Wings is in between an alcoholic Dad scolding his son for an error in his middle-school championship game and what seems to be the saddest twenty-sixth birthday party of all time. We order a pitcher and argue over whether or not one of my friends is a cereal killer because he orders dry rub with no ranch or bleu cheese- a side note: he is. As the game goes on, my friend, who is progressively browning out, tells us that he put two hundred dollars on the Sixers. Little does he know, Joel Embiid is about to miss every shot he takes in the second half, and he’s going to have a Jack Nicholson esque meltdown in BWW on a Tuesday.
After getting politely asked to leave the establishment, my friend’s little brother drops me off at my house, where Morgan♒ will send me underwhelming nudes. I’m slightly drunk on page six of my ex’s VSCO. Another day, another dollar.