The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(3)

Good morning! Could you please remember to do what I asked? xo -Noel

You did it again. PLEASE, for the love of GOD, stop. xo -Noel

I swear to Christ, if you do it one more time, I will stab you in your sleep. –Noel

Seriously? Again? Just for that, I used your toothbrush to untangle my pubic hairs. You’re welcome.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT? I poisoned something in the fridge. Good luck trying to figure out what it is.

“I had nightmares about those Post-it notes for a week!” he yells back. “And I had to throw away all the food in the fridge!”

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t listen to one simple direction!”

I really wish I could stop the words that are coming out of my mouth, but again, it’s much better than the alternative. Sure, he doesn’t leave the toilet seat up, but what he does is soooooooo much worse. Granted, it probably wouldn’t have gotten to the level it did without a little help from me, but still.

Sam, bless his heart, always puts the toilet seat down. Along with the TOILET SEAT COVER. Now, I’m sure you’re probably saying to yourself, “Awwww, what a sweet guy!”. You go right ahead and keep telling yourself that until the night you come stumbling into the bathroom half asleep, pull your underwear down, and flop your naked ass on top of the freezing cold toilet seat cover. Sure, it’s better than landing in the actual bowl, but nothing is better and everything sucks at three A.M.

Deciding to pay him back, I returned the favor after I finished going to the bathroom, not even realizing that most men don’t sit down to pee. He didn’t get a cold shock of plastic toilet seat cover on his ass to jolt him awake, oh no. He just stood in the bathroom with the light off and proceeded to pee all over the cover, which meant when I went into the bathroom next, I flopped my ass down on top of a cold, toilet seat cover SPLATTERED WITH PEE.

I did what any pissed off, half-asleep woman would do. I ripped the cover from the toilet, marched into the bedroom, and chucked it at his head. Really, it’s his fault for having such a shoddy toilet seat cover that was so easy to rip off.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY IT’S SO HARD TO LIFT THE COVER BEFORE YOU PEE!” he shouts.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU HAVE TO BE SUCH A TOILET-SEAT-COVER-PEEING STUPID PEEING HEADED PEE’ER!” I scream back, rolling angrily out of bed and yanking the sheet off of his body to take it with me. “NO SHEET FOR YOU, PISSY MCPISSERSON FROM THE CITY OF PISSVILLE IN THE STATE OF TOILET SEAT COVER PISS!”

This is why I will never win any argument I ever have with someone, especially an argument I’m picking just to avoid the real problem. I don’t have the ability to say intelligent, though-provoking things to make my case. I will just word vomit stupid shit, thereby giving him the upper hand to assume he’s right.

Moving around the foot of the bed while fumbling to try and wrap the sheet around my body, I stomp across the room and into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind me, but not before he gets the last word.

“I JERKED OFF INTO ONE OF YOUR BOTTLES OF LOTION, SHAMPOO, OR CONDINTIONER! GOOD LUCK TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHICH ONE!”

“At least you’re jerking off into something!” I whisper irritably.

Don’t worry, it was under my breath. I’m not a complete *.

Feeling a headache coming on from clenching my teeth during the fifteen minutes of dry thrusting, along with the stupid pee fight, I open the medicine cabinet to grab some Tylenol, when a prescription bottle with Sam’s name on it catches my eye.

I hear the muffled sound of the television turning on in our bedroom and quickly grab the bottle that wasn’t here yesterday, my eyes widening and my jaw dropping when I see the date the prescription was issued, as well as the side effects.

Suddenly, having a cold, pee-covered ass doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.





Chapter 2




Spit the Spooge

Sam




“Jesus, man, pull yourself together,” I mutter, stopping in the middle of my best friend Alex’s living room to stare at him in disgust.

After he’d called off of work for the last three days and hadn’t answered any of my phone calls or texts, I let myself into his apartment with the spare key he’d given me, to make sure he was okay. A decision I’m seriously regretting now that I see he’s still alive and can only imagine what he’s been doing with himself the last few days. Or not doing with himself, considering the smell that burns my nose, what looks like dried hot wing sauce stuck to his cheeks and piles of empty pizza boxes, crumpled up potato chip bags, and about a hundred beer bottles littering the floor around his recliner where it looks like he hasn’t moved in days.

“Dude, is that a stack of chicken wing bones in your lap?” I ask, afraid to move from where I’m standing to get a closer look in case I step in something that might give me Hepatitis or make me vomit.

Or, step in actual vomit.

“Did you know BW3’s now delivers wings?” Alex asks in between pathetic sniffles as he stares at the television mounted on the wall across from him. “I mean, technically they don’t deliver, but I told Lenny he could have my PlayStation 4 if he stopped and picked up a dozen hot wings on his way over here.”

Leaning over to the window next to him, I open the blinds to let in some sunlight, regretting that decision even more than the one to come over here.