Baby & the Bone: Vol. II

Huge.

Ri-fucking-diculous banana yellow sweat stains the size of craters.

There are only two reasons I even touched Brit’s grotesque soccer practice t-shirt: first, my bags still have yet to arrive, and I am dangerously low on clean clothes. Secondly, I doubt Britni’s pretend boyfriend’ll really give a rat’s ass once he’s inches deep, fucking moi.

But anywho, it happens, and it’s so nothing special. I pass the time by mentally reciting Shakespeare sonnets. He smokes menthols - not Newports - no thanks. This is the boring part. What happens next is what you’re dying to hear.

No offense, but you’re Britni-stupid if you haven’t figured it out.

I could give you the horrible, gory details, but I’ll spare you only because - for the first time - gossip regarding yours truly totally has me bored to tears. Or would “bored to death” be more accurate? Too dark? Too soon?

During our camp’s shitty reproduction of The Crucible (in which I, of course, was cast as Abigail), the little hunchbacked virgin pushes me off the stage, not only breaking my leg, but also snagging my pantyhose in the process.

I was humiliated, me, humiliated. Could you believe? I was crushed. Crushed, like ground up into barely there pink and blue powder. No chance could I have noticed. Without hesitation, I downed the Green Apple Smirnoff spiked with Val’s benzodiazepines, painkillers, opiates.

Mother sends her love through no-carb, no sugar added, gluten-free chocolate chip cookies. Father sends his apologies over a two-minute long phone call. Kirby offers his sincere condolences in the form of an overdose.

I literally fucking pissed myself.

Puke green and lips blue (not in a chic Galliano-esque way), how mortifying. My worst nightmare. I foamed at the mouth, my mascara smeared. And I was still wearing the pit-stained t-shirt.

The last outfit I will ever wear is Britni’s pit-stained t-shirt.

Kirby couldn’t have planned a more graceful exit?