You Put The Sun To Shame

It was around four in the morning, and everyone was trashed as shit. I’m pretty sure Pat was passed out in the middle of the stairwell, and I saw Alex fast asleep on the coffee table, a beer in hand.

Shit, I thought. These guys can get so hammered!

And yet there I was, totally fine after three beers, four shots of tequila and a glass of liquor.

Why couldn’t I have the funny drunk pictures and videos like everyone else?

I mean, everyone other than Garrett. He’s never drunken a drop of alcohol in his life and he’s perfectly content with that. It’s not that he’s a pussy or something. He just thinks underage drinking is stupid. We were only seniors in high school, and he didn’t want to drink just because everyone else was.

And he still took the blame when his parents found an empty beer can underneath the couch after a party.

He was such a good guy. I loved him to death.

I searched the house for him, and found him hanging out in his room. He was watching reruns of Family Guy and eating Hot Cheetos. This is usually how he acted on any other Friday night, and since everyone else was passed out somewhere, I figured he’d be there.

“Knock, knock,” I said, smiling.

“Oh, hey, Ash! I thought you’d be trashed by now.” He grinned and patted the bed next to him. I gladly sat down and took off my heels. They’d been killing me all night.

“Can I crash here tonight? I’m too lazy to drive home,” I giggled. I looked at him hopefully.

“Of course. I figured you were anyways. Since when do you need to ask permission to sleep here?” He playfully nudged me with his elbow.

“Thanks, Gare.” I smiled and gave him a hug. He wrapped his arms around me as well.

“Which episode is this?” I asked, referring to Spongebob, which was now playing on his plasma screen.

“It’s the one where Spongebob takes home that jellyfish and he gets all of his jellyfishy friends to ruin Spongebob’s house and shit!” He looked at me with a huge smile on his face.

“I take it you like this episode?” I laughed.

“It’s only my favorite ever!” he said with a ‘no duh!’ look on his face.

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t know one thing about you, Mr. Nickelsen,” I scoffed.

“Okay, you so don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“I beg to differ. I have been your best friend since seventh grade! I know everything about you,” I retorted.

“Oh, yeah? Well what’s my favorite color?”

“Blue.” I rolled my eyes. That was such an easy question.

“Shit. You’re right. Um, what’s my favorite animal?”

“Panda.”

“Favorite shirt?”

“Your ‘zombie killer’ shirt.”

“Favorite song?”

“’Come Pick Me Up’ by Ryan Adams.”

“Mother’s maiden name?”

“Johnson.”

“Favorite band?”

“Ivory.”

“Favorite deodorant?”

“Degree Men.”

He paused for a minute. “Shit, you got all of those questions right. I can’t believe you know me so well.”

“You’re my best friend, I know everything about you!” I replied.

“Trust me; you don’t know everything about me.” He looked down to his sheets.

“Oh yeah, like what?” I questioned.

“N-nothing . . .” he stammered and fidgeted with his hands.

"Uh, okay. . ." I said and then turned over and tried to sleep. I wouldn't let this go; he's crack and tell me sometime.