It’s 11:37 in the morning when I awake to my roommate screaming at his computer over women’s tennis. He’s been claiming that this one Japanese amateur is his ticket out of debt ever since he came across her IMG highlight tape on YouTube, but apparently, that’s not the case. My mouth is about as dry as Susan Boyle’s pussy, and I need water BAD. As much as I want a light-blue Gatorade, to walk seven minutes down the street is unbearable right now. I put my mouth over the sink where I’m greeted by what I hope is just my other roommate’s facial hair and start sucking the drain like I’m being breastfed. Despite having $23 in my bank account, I begin rolodexing things in my head that make me feel like I deserve Doordash. Being that I’m a relatively massive piece of shit, not much comes to mind until I remember that two weeks ago, I venmod a girl I fucked two summers ago three dollars for her philanthropy board, which seems good enough to me.
After watching Jordan Peterson murder Cathy Newman for the eleventh time, I wrap up my Mcdicks and toss it into an overflowing trash-can full of beer cans, In-N-Out cups, and used paper towels. Since it’s Saturday, the boys are tossing at a satellite house three blocks down the street, so I’m going to come empty-handed, claim I’ll Venmo my friend with his parent’s credit card, and tell him my parental stimulus hasn’t arrived yet when he asks me for his money. This backyard is a glorified recycling bin with two painted plywood tables. The boys are roof drinking, Tyler Childers is at max vol, and 5th years are ripping darts with the intensity of a slightly overweight girl facetuning a game day picture (it’s an app). I play four games. I lose three. When I accidentally kick an impressive fifa in the middle of the third game, I make sure to ask everybody if they saw it. Because I’m dropping die like Nixon dropped bombs, I’ll remind everybody and anybody of my fifa the rest of my time at this location.
When I get home, dinner is microwave mac & cheese and some XR Vyvanse. I’ll shower and remember that I was supposed to wash my towel yesterday after I used it to wipe cum off a girl’s belly, then settle with using the cum-less side to dry my hair. The pregame is at my house tonight, so I’ll spend ten minutes vacuuming then text my Mom asking if I can buy a Roomba off her Amazon prime. The floor is sticky, and it’s just going to get stickier, so I give up and lay in bed because I started having a panic attack due to the vyvanse mentioned above. I debate whether I want to text my boy to bring me half a bar, but then I remember that the last time I took a xanax, I ended peeing my pants and woke up with my ex-girlfriend’s vsco open. That’s enough for me to decide that I’m just going to blackout instead, so I start blasting Red Light Green Light for the forty-second consecutive weekend in a row and begin to chase warm vodka with Sunny-Dee. Sunny-Dee lowkey reminds me of my childhood, so I Snapchat my best friend from middle school a picture of my ballsack and then get back to bopping with the boys.
The pregame is just another attack on our security deposit, and each shot is just another attack on my liver, but I’m choosing to ignore both of these facts and actually having a pretty good time. My boy approaches me asking if he can do blow in my room, to which I, of course, say yes to, and the next thing I know, my room has a line longer than a Trader Joe’s at the height of the pandemic. I’m trying my best not to get bothered by the fact that the fat-funny-friend of the DG friend group has her Truly dangerously close to my PS5, but I find peace because my crypto has gone back up, so I withdrawal off of Ca$h-App in anticipation for bars.
The Uber ride to the first bar of the night went pretty well, apart from my boy in the passenger seat asking our driver way too many questions about fighting in the Gulf War. We get in the bar no problem, but I can’t get a drink for my life. I’ve tried everything. The card wave, the aggressive hey can i…, and the classic box-out for the kid next to me. She’s having none of it. After the longest seven minutes of my life, I end up paying twelve bucks for a double whiskey-coke then attempt to find my friends. Finding my friends in a bar that’s so packed that a fart could affect twenty people is about as easy as explaining the concept behind black lives matter to an old-school Italian guy, so it takes me about ten minutes. Once I start to feel lost in the sauce, I pull out my string of three white guy dance moves, then briefly realize how cringe I must look, so I stop. I make eye contact with a girl unhappy about the guy trying to grind on her and introduce myself as a guy who’s slightly less of an asshole. I think it’s a pretty decent joke, but she can’t hear me over the shitty Post-Malone remix in the background, and I offer to buy her a drink.
Arm-touching, exchanging Snapchat instead of Venmos, and flirtatious conversation has lead me to believe I might get laid. But just when I’m about to inquire whether or not she wants to Uber home, her overly dramatic friend comes over asking her to help find Becca, and my eight-dollar investment has gone down the drain. For the next twenty-five minutes, my brain computes the possibilities of there actually being a Becca. I’m sad, drunk, and hungry. I find a friend who feels the same way and offer to split a ride home.
Once home, I decide it’s a good idea to wash down BBQ Pringles with the ⅓ of my remaining 4Loko. I wake up with four Snapchats pending to a user that hasn’t added me back. I hate my life.
