Looking to Score

by Carrie Gray

Mercury must be in Gatorade or something, because my vibes are all off.

I loved it when people underestimated me. It made proving them wrong that much more rewarding.

It took ten minutes for me to feel like said bad bitch. I was a medium bitch. An over-easy bitch.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” he argued, scratching his head. “Yes,” I began. “You do. If you won’t do it because your spot on the team is in jeopardy, then you’ll do it because I found poems you wrote to your high school girlfriend, and I’m not afraid to share them.”

“Where is Oakley? If this is some fucking prank, then I’ll sign him up for volunteering on a Sunday morning, so help me Orlando Bloom.”

I was checking up on the dumpster fire of the internet—Twitter—when

Sweet mother of our lord and savior, Meryl Streep.

I was already hot and sweaty from the game, which by the way took three hours and thirteen minutes. Fifteen minute quarters, my ass.

“It’s hotter than a meth pipe on payday, Crosby.

One minute I was raging, the next I was giggling, and now I was about to start ugly crying over how much I loved my roommate. Emotional trauma is weird.

It was a cycle, his soft gentle purr escalating into a burst of roaring snores, finishing with one final explosive snore. A snorgasm.

“I’m not like regular moms, I’m a cool mom. But my husband will skin you alive if you have sex with our daughter while he’s flipping pancakes in the next room for you.”