Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
And to make matters worse, I constantly fight for the right to pay for shit in my relationship knowing damn well I can’t afford to pay for the shit in our relationship.
It’s a catch twenty fuck you, and I’m the one who keeps getting fucked.
This scrimping and saving pennies bullshit is what keeps toothpicks in my mouth practically around the clock.
Once upon a blue book, this problem was much easier to solve.
Make a delivery.
Introduce a dealer to a new client.
Sell part of my stash to someone else for twice the price its actually worth.
Now?
Now I’m running my ass into the fucking ground just to be able to afford to take my other half to play glow in the dark mini golf on my one day off.
The vibrating of my phone across my side table has me immediately reaching over to grab it.
One swipe announces an unread text.
Another reveals the should’ve been predicted sender.
Kara: Ya like?
The photo is of her in a bra, yet from the hand motion she’s making she’s pretending to ask about her hair.
Her little trick to try to get me interested in her tiny tits is about as see through as the thing holding them up.
She’s still struggling to understand that we’re friends with no benefits attached.
It’s a new concept for her.
Fuck, it’s a new concept for me, but honestly, most shit these days is.
Last week’s array of bright rainbow colors has been swapped for jet black. The color itself is striking.
Off-putting.
Add that to the pout she’s posing with, and the entire thing is an ode to how she’s actually feeling.
Me: Very classic Thirty Seconds to Mars shit.
I tuck the device in my back pocket and exit my bedroom for the front door.
Seeing McCoy sprawled out with too many textbooks and an energy drink on our coffee table makes him irresistible for the mocking. “And you’re sure you don’t wanna ditch whatever the fuck you’re doing for put-put?”
“Want to?” my roommate inquires with mirth in his voice. “Fuck yeah. Should I?” His eyes scrutinize his surroundings. “Probably not. I’ve got an intense ass project I haven’t even started and
Ninety-six pages of Art History that should’ve been history a week ago. Apparently that test crept up a little faster than I anticipated.”
I grab my keys from the kitchen counter at the same time I chuckle. “Life of a college student.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Does that mean Jo is banned from the apartment so you can actually get some shit done?”
“More like I’m studying because she’s not around to distract me. She’s having girl’s night or some shit.”
“So you’re study pouting?”
He flashes me his middle finger in response to the observation.
More laughter leaks free as I maneuver my way closer to our front door.
“You coming home tonight?”
“Not if I can help it.” The grin that crosses my face is devilish. “Unless you need us to come back here. Maybe all Pres’s screaming will help you concentrate better?”
McCoy turns his black baseball cap backwards on a phony smile. “I’mma change the fuckin’ locks while you’re gone.”
Additional laughter accompanies me out of our apartment; however, doing the drive from my place to Pres’s unexpected regret hits me.
I should’ve gone to college.
Studied…something.
Did…more.
While no one I roll with would point the shit out, it’s more than fucking evident, I’m the only one who hasn’t chased more education.
More substance.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Pres hasn’t introduced me to her best friend that happens to be New York Times Bestselling author and therapist.
Like is she ashamed of me?
That I’m not like her corporate climbing ex asshole who I can hardly believe let her go so fucking easy?
Do I probably have stimulating shit to bring to the conversation?
No.
Can I fake the shit?
With the fucking best of them.
Convincing her to let me drive requires less effort than I’m anticipating, and my appreciation is immediately mirrored by letting her pick the music. For some reason, she’s in a country mood, so we listen to classic like Tim McGraw and newer shit like Cooper Copeland. We hold hands, sing together into the pretend microphone that is her phone, and laugh like we’re the only two people in whole fucking world.
As far as I’m concerned?
We are.
Paranormal Put-ivity is even better than we were picturing. The entire facility is broken into three different courses as well as contains an arcade, laser tag area, and food court – all monster or horror theme. Rather than just pay for one course – the cheapest option – I spring for two wristbands, which’ll let us explore the whole establishment for the whole evening if we want and comes with a “complimentary” ten-dollar card for the game room. It cost a small fucking fortune, and I’m hoping we can just grab cheap food on our way home versus bleeding me dry here.
Er.
Her place.
Not home.
Although I wish it were our home.