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Diary Of An Unwanted Slampiece

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It is 2:00 AM.

After seven shots of Jameson, four mid-evening Bloody Marys, and a case of beer you and your roommates finished off, you see me.

There I am, all 250 pounds of me, held together in a nice, tight dress that really shows off my five chins. I’m in the corner of the bar, sipping my well vodka and soda, watching you and your friends sing the chorus of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” as you polish off your final whiskey coke in the middle of the dance floor.

You see me. I see you. We rush toward each other, or at least that’s how I like to imagine it. In the real world, you stumble towards me, backing up to the tune of some 90’s hip-hop jam, thinking I look like a modern day Sharon Stone. It is pretty degrading, but I take it in stride, because people usually compare me to Roseanne.

You turn around and start making out with me. I feel loved, even though you have no idea what my name is. I start craving IHOP. Your friends are laughing at you, but you don’t seem to notice. You are consumed with me!

You ask me if I want to go to your place. Enthusiastically, I say yes. I haven’t felt this way since the last time you asked me to do this, which was a little over a month ago, the day you finished a bottle of Evan Williams with your three brothers by 8:00 PM, and then proceeded to throw me out the next day in a fit of rage, while my clothes were burning in your basement.

We go to your place. I am eagerly awaiting my first sexual experience since the aforementioned clothes burning. You…turn on your XBOX and begin playing Madden? Is this your normal drunk routine? I am furious. You tell me to “Go in the kitchen and make me a turkey sandwich, with Cheetos.” I oblige, because I want you, and morning IHOP, which I am craving once again. Do they still have unlimited pancakes? My stomach rumbles.

I make your turkey sandwich with Cheetos, with a smile, while your “friends” sit and laugh at me. Their “slampieces” as they call them, are also making turkey sandwiches, but unlike me, they are not simultaneously eating Cheetos as well.

I bring the sandwich up to you. You are naked, and still playing Madden. I quickly take off my clothes in anticipation of what happens next. I am now naked. You are still playing Madden. I start playing with myself, in hopes that you will notice. You tell me to quiet down because you’re running the two-minute drill. I ask you what that is. You tell me to “Shut up and get you some Wheat Thins.” I start crying, coming to terms with the possibility of another sexless night. You look at me, scornfully, and then jump on top of me, making sure to pause your game first.

I find your penis. You thrust it into me — once, twice, three times. On the fourth, you splatter all over my face. You stop for a moment and tell me “That was the two-minute drill,” and then roll over and go to sleep, not offering me anything to clean my body with. I am sad. I eat your leftover turkey sandwich. I really like looking at you. I start thinking about Denny’s. I fall asleep.

“OH SHIT!” I wake up to the sound of your voice. You are handsome. I notice you have a new Evan Williams bottle on your nightstand. I am really craving IHOP again. I ask you if we are going to brunch.

Wait. Where are my clothes? I took them off as I waited for you, and I can’t find them anywhere. I smell something coming from your chimney. Oh no, not again. Your friend you call “Steve-O,” because of his tendency to inflict bodily harm when he’s drunk, is bellied over in laughter. His slampiece, Katie, snickers as I walk by, naked.

You burned my clothes. Again. I am sad. You look at me, and then hand me your “Formal 2012” shirt. I am happy. I might frame it. I walk out of the door. Conveniently, IHOP is a block away. I take a table to myself. I am sad, but am ready for unlimited pancakes.

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