P.S. I Loathe You.
First Shift.
The next morning, I fell out of my bed.
No really, fell.
You see, what happened was that I was sleeping at the top bunk. It was around 9 AM, which is usually when I start to toss and turn in my bed back at home. I tossed, once, turned twice, and fell over and onto my ass. Everyone cracked up and laughed at me, and I groaned – ugh. Where was room service? Breakfast? Then someone told me, “Get up! Your shift is at 10.”
I stood up, yawning as I tossed the blanket back up to the bunkand accidentally-on-purpose hitting that really annoying streak-blonde girl in the face. “When’s breakfast?” I asked casually, going over to the closest closet. I felt the eyes staring at me, and didn’t care – I knew that my legs, long, lean and tanned, were something rare in a girl from the East Coast.
“Ermm… You gotta get there before everyone else to get breakfast.”
I stopped rummaging through the closet of things. Turning slowly with a deathglare on my face, I hissed, “What?”
The boy honestly looked frightened. “Erm… Like, I mean… This isn’t the Hilton y’kn-“
I nearly lost it. I screamed, causing several moans and groans and pillows being stuffed over heads, and the boy grimaced and pulled his hands over his ears. My shrieking scream became a string of sailor’s swear words as I ripped through the closet, finding my Louis Vuittons and shoving it on the ground, ripping through it and grabbing a white Prada t-shirt, a Levi Women’s denim skirt and the same Jimmy Choos from last night. Opening the door, I stomped outside, slamming the door with a big shove, causing a loud ‘BANG’ as I stomped to the ‘craft service tent’.
Once I was there, I was given a black apron which I threw aside – it was some gross polyester blend, anyways. Basically, my job was offering coffee to everyone else that was there. Ugh. Grimacing at the smell of the stale, over-brewed coffee, I stood ‘dutifully’ (yeah right) next to the coffee pot, making ‘small talk’ with all the drugged-up ‘rock-stars’ (more like dirty men that hadn’t showered in weeks). They seemed weirdly pleased that I didn’t know them for some reason, introduced themselves (one Jared Way or something, and some guy named Bert… McCracken. Really. Weirdos, I know) and left with a smile…
Pedophiles.
Anyways, I was doing my ‘work’ and hoping this would be over soon – my legs were getting really sore, and it was almost 2 hours now that I’d been standing up. 12 PM… Okay. Almost over. However, unluckily, 4 scruffy looking guys that seemed to be around my age walked in, smiling at everyone. There was the first one – short, black hair that seemed greasier than bacon that wore the tightest jeans I’d ever seen, a guy with a partial afro and a unibrow problem, a guy with long brown hair, nerdy square glasses and a part-beard, and this other guy…
Wow. He was sorta cute, in the chubby, nerdy way. Square-framed glasses framed round, attractive eyes and had reddish-brown, soft-looking hair that framed his round, chubby cheeks and rather thick sideburns. But other than the sideburns… He was definitely cute.
If he wasn’t so weird, he’d definitely be cute.
Anyways, I put on a fake-smile as the four finally reached my end – the coffee pot. I was sitting down now as I grabbed a paper cup and poured in the coffee, offering it to the first one, the chubby-cheeked one. He took it with shaking hands.
Andspilledtheentirecontentsofthecupontomyshirt.
“SHIT!” I screamed, jumping up at the lukewarm liquid that was staining my $75 Prada t-shirt, imported all the way from Italy. The short greasy one looked amused but the one I had considered ‘cute’ and now considered a fag was having a panic attack.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!” He practically hyperventilated while I snatched a relatively clean looking cloth from one of the kitchen staff, dabbing carefully at the big brown stain on my pure-white, 100% cotton t-shirt, a huge deathglare on the coffee stain. Looking slowly back up at the stupid, clumsy retard, I hissed through my teeth, “You ruined. My seventy-five dollar, imported-from-Italy tee shirt. Do you know how much this will cost me to get it dry cleaned?!?!?!”
Okay, the last bit was screaming. But still.
He looked seriously like he was about to faint. His skin was pale as the moon… Yet he didn’t stop staring at me as he apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Can I pay for that?”
Well, obviously, he couldn’t afford to pay for that. But seriously, I was so pissed, I couldn’t care less.
“You had better.” I hissed, my eyes narrowing as I shoved the rest of the coffee cups into the rest of their hands and stomping out of the tent, not even caring if I was starving anymore.
I needed to find a dry cleaner.
No really, fell.
You see, what happened was that I was sleeping at the top bunk. It was around 9 AM, which is usually when I start to toss and turn in my bed back at home. I tossed, once, turned twice, and fell over and onto my ass. Everyone cracked up and laughed at me, and I groaned – ugh. Where was room service? Breakfast? Then someone told me, “Get up! Your shift is at 10.”
I stood up, yawning as I tossed the blanket back up to the bunkand accidentally-on-purpose hitting that really annoying streak-blonde girl in the face. “When’s breakfast?” I asked casually, going over to the closest closet. I felt the eyes staring at me, and didn’t care – I knew that my legs, long, lean and tanned, were something rare in a girl from the East Coast.
“Ermm… You gotta get there before everyone else to get breakfast.”
I stopped rummaging through the closet of things. Turning slowly with a deathglare on my face, I hissed, “What?”
The boy honestly looked frightened. “Erm… Like, I mean… This isn’t the Hilton y’kn-“
I nearly lost it. I screamed, causing several moans and groans and pillows being stuffed over heads, and the boy grimaced and pulled his hands over his ears. My shrieking scream became a string of sailor’s swear words as I ripped through the closet, finding my Louis Vuittons and shoving it on the ground, ripping through it and grabbing a white Prada t-shirt, a Levi Women’s denim skirt and the same Jimmy Choos from last night. Opening the door, I stomped outside, slamming the door with a big shove, causing a loud ‘BANG’ as I stomped to the ‘craft service tent’.
Once I was there, I was given a black apron which I threw aside – it was some gross polyester blend, anyways. Basically, my job was offering coffee to everyone else that was there. Ugh. Grimacing at the smell of the stale, over-brewed coffee, I stood ‘dutifully’ (yeah right) next to the coffee pot, making ‘small talk’ with all the drugged-up ‘rock-stars’ (more like dirty men that hadn’t showered in weeks). They seemed weirdly pleased that I didn’t know them for some reason, introduced themselves (one Jared Way or something, and some guy named Bert… McCracken. Really. Weirdos, I know) and left with a smile…
Pedophiles.
Anyways, I was doing my ‘work’ and hoping this would be over soon – my legs were getting really sore, and it was almost 2 hours now that I’d been standing up. 12 PM… Okay. Almost over. However, unluckily, 4 scruffy looking guys that seemed to be around my age walked in, smiling at everyone. There was the first one – short, black hair that seemed greasier than bacon that wore the tightest jeans I’d ever seen, a guy with a partial afro and a unibrow problem, a guy with long brown hair, nerdy square glasses and a part-beard, and this other guy…
Wow. He was sorta cute, in the chubby, nerdy way. Square-framed glasses framed round, attractive eyes and had reddish-brown, soft-looking hair that framed his round, chubby cheeks and rather thick sideburns. But other than the sideburns… He was definitely cute.
If he wasn’t so weird, he’d definitely be cute.
Anyways, I put on a fake-smile as the four finally reached my end – the coffee pot. I was sitting down now as I grabbed a paper cup and poured in the coffee, offering it to the first one, the chubby-cheeked one. He took it with shaking hands.
Andspilledtheentirecontentsofthecupontomyshirt.
“SHIT!” I screamed, jumping up at the lukewarm liquid that was staining my $75 Prada t-shirt, imported all the way from Italy. The short greasy one looked amused but the one I had considered ‘cute’ and now considered a fag was having a panic attack.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!” He practically hyperventilated while I snatched a relatively clean looking cloth from one of the kitchen staff, dabbing carefully at the big brown stain on my pure-white, 100% cotton t-shirt, a huge deathglare on the coffee stain. Looking slowly back up at the stupid, clumsy retard, I hissed through my teeth, “You ruined. My seventy-five dollar, imported-from-Italy tee shirt. Do you know how much this will cost me to get it dry cleaned?!?!?!”
Okay, the last bit was screaming. But still.
He looked seriously like he was about to faint. His skin was pale as the moon… Yet he didn’t stop staring at me as he apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Can I pay for that?”
Well, obviously, he couldn’t afford to pay for that. But seriously, I was so pissed, I couldn’t care less.
“You had better.” I hissed, my eyes narrowing as I shoved the rest of the coffee cups into the rest of their hands and stomping out of the tent, not even caring if I was starving anymore.
I needed to find a dry cleaner.