That Was The Worst Sleepover Ever!

"2:45 already? Fuck!"

I questioned the accuracy of our stove clock, but I eventually reasoned that it had no cause to act vindictive toward me, and was just performing its function to the best of its ability. Time may move forward at a constant speed, but it sure as fuck doesn't feel like it. I walked into my room, tossed my bag onto the end of my bed and began taking mental inventory of any and everything that could be used to help escape the forthcoming drudgery I'd be forced to endure. Anything electronic was out of the question as any battery with even the slightest of life left in it had been cycled from one device to another until I'd drained the very essence of its being.

After a few minutes of digging through boxes of junk, I laid my findings atop my comforter and took a look at my haul.

Several old issues of CRACKED magazine dating back to the early 90's. I'd already discovered every bit of subtlety to be found in the Spies vs. Sabs spreads, but these were desperate times indeed.

One of those sticky hands you'd get out of a vending machine at the grocery store. It'd been sitting on the floor of my closet for God knows how long so it was covered in lint and dirt, but I was pretty sure a quick run under the faucet would fix that.

An old Super Mario Bros. LCD watch I found in a desk drawer. The screen had what looked like a thumb-shaped indent in the middle, but when I pressed the button a series of digitalized beeps and boops emanated from the tiny speaker, so at the very least it was a functional video game. I figured if I tried hard enough I could either trick myself into thinking it was fun or black out from the intense pressure being applied to my frontal lobe. Either way, really.

It wasn't much, admittedly, but a man in my situation couldn't choose to be picky. I didn't feel like emptying the contents of my backpack so I grabbed a plastic bag from the hall closet and put the items, along with my toothbrush and some extra clothes into the ol' Irish suitcase.

I spent the better part of the next hour sprawled out on the couch, trying to will my body into reaching an accord with my brain so that I might relax enough to enjoy my last 45 minutes as a free man. I stared vacantly into the TV as a portly southern woman accosted what may or may not have been the sister of her baby's daddy over who fucked who in the where while a boisterous studio audience cheered them on. I moved closer to the TV with the hope that maybe the sheer output of stupid combined with the carcinogens from the cathode ray tube would somehow amplify and knock me into some sort of 24 hour coma.

My plan didn't work and I was all too lucid when I heard the bottom of a rusty muffler scratch and bang its way across our gravel driveway. My instinctive reaction was to pretend like I wasn't home, but I neglected to take the bay window overlooking our front yard into consideration. My next idea was to apply Jurassic Park reasoning to the situation and not move, hoping she'd have the predatory instinct of a T-Rex. It didn't work to well, and as the horn struggled to maintain a constant pitch for 35 straight seconds, I grabbed my bag of stuff and shuffled reluctantly toward the door.

:previous page: - :next page: