Sluts in Love

People don't believe me when I say I'm pretty fucking smart. And fuck you if you think I'm arrogant for saying that. I like math the most. I find solace in numbers because they're always the same.

But. Times like these I just wish I was mentally impaired or shit. Roger must know by now that I'm good for shit. If he doesn't, well, God save the old man's soul.

"I just don't understand, Paris," he sighs. His wife left his sorry ass a few years ago. I've never been allowed to talk about it.

"There's nothing to understand," I yawn. It's nearly midnight and Shitler is still outside. He is going to be so mad at me. Why the old man visits me this late on a Friday is beyond my own fucking comprehension. I like to think it's so he feels better about himself before hitting up the street for some two dollar man whore.

"Paris," his old bushy eyebrows knit together in the I-raised-you-as-my-own-therefore-you-owe-me-this type of voice. "I'm just asking you to reconsider. I don't need an answer right away."

I stand up and lean against the door so fucking subtly. "I'll keep that in mind. Drive safe." I say like a dumb bastard. Roger gives me one last look that make me feel almost ashamed. Almost. But he leaves and Shitler comes running in and is shivering from the snow. He jumps up on my couch and shakes all over.

I ruffle his ears and kiss the top of his nose. I fucking love my dog. "I'm sorry, Shitty. Not everyone likes dogs- can you believe it?" And Shitler looks at me like I'm a fucking dumbass because he's the only non-human who knows me so well.

When I still lived with him, Roger liked Juliet much more than me. It's probably because he thinks she's hot and that's pretty disgusting to think about. He's one fuck of a creepy man and I still don't know how I ended up on his doorstep. But I'm almost eighteen, emancipated, and Shitler is the only company I need. Except for Juliet.

Fucking Juliet. She feels so fucking entitled to dictate my life because she hates her house and practically lives with me. Fucking whore. Whenever I bring Rosaline over she's always here and staring us down with those fucking cat eyes.

Shitler barks and snaps me out of whatever the fuck I was doing. Speak of the Devil. She comes barging in like she practically owns the fucking place and plants a disease-ridden kiss on my pup's head.

"He's going to bite your lips off," I say but I'm actually glad to see her. Our weekends usually consist of her sleeping over and drinking all of my coffee in the morning while I verbally harass her.

"You weren't in school today," she states. My television suddenly flickers to life and she turns on some documentary like an indie douchebag.

"I was jacking off on top of your brother's grave. It wiped me out."

"Cheryl told me that Keith said supposedly Catherine Pardee was going to send me a Christmas gram. It better be chocolate, not one of those shit gummy things."

That actually surprises me because once she's done with them, Juliet's toys never, ever, try to interact with her again. This little frosh is just a bag full of surprises.

"I heard something the other day, too. You left your bra at Zack Gates' house a few weeks ago," his very name annoys me and it's not true at all.

She just shrugs and Shitler curls up on her lap. "It's all of this world."

In Juliet skank talk, that translates to: fuck it. I wish I could live by those words of wisdom as well but God damn, I'm not as high as she is yet.