Uninhibited

It's not personal

*
I stretch into a massive yawn. My eyes stay shut, but the increase in outside traffic serves as a noisy indicator that it's unfortunately morning.

After opening my lids, I peel myself off of Chaz's sofa. Yes, peel. You know the way leather often sticks to your skin? It's annoying. Fuck that couch.

Staring out the glass door to his terrace, I observe hordes of cars and people high-tailing it to their destinations, and it gets me wondering. What am I doing with my life? Where's it going? When will I reach my destination?

I dwell on the thoughts that I stuff into the far corners of my mind, but the nagging fact is there. I'll be twenty-five tomorrow. A quarter-century. One-fourth of my way into the ground—probs even more than that. How many people actually live to one hundred?

Anyway, I contemplate my entire purpose for starting this journey. I was stuck in dead-end nothingness and bored out of my skull.

Truth is...

I fear that's what real adulthood, when I go home and work for my parents, is going to be. And the prospect of doing the same thing day in and day out... it fucking terrifies me.

"Just sugar still?" Chaz asks in a chipper, and far too early for this, voice.

"Sure." I'm super dry, super irritated.

Why couldn't he shut his whore mouth last night and let me have some fun? Who talks to someone through a door—though it wasn't actually happening—during their daily constitution?

"You're in a mood." He hands me a cup of coffee after I trudge into the kitchen with a blanket around my shoulders like a cape. My head bobbles with a dickish sneer. But because I'm a creature of habit, I accept the mug, grumbling thanks before sitting on a stool at the island.

I am not in a mood.

The emptiness between my legs when I cross them, and the lack of completion, certainly isn't helping anyone out.

So yeah, I'm not in a mood.

I'm in the moodiest mood that has ever mooded. Is that a word? It is now.

I inhale a mouthful of the glorious hot coffee beans, ground and liquified, then release a single snarky laugh at the falsity of even this—my favorite beverage. This asshole is a liar, too. I can have three cups, maybe even four, and is it gonna wake me up? Make me perky and cheerful?

I think the fuck not.

The bottom of my ceramic mug bangs onto the countertop harder than intended. Chaz scowls while sipping from his own before lowering his forearms to the island.

"Out with it," he says, eyeing my clicking nails with repugnance, which only makes me click louder. "What's wrong with you?"

That's an actual loaded question. I'd say it's a mix of three things. The first being the imminent headache about moving back home, the expectations. This has been a brief reprieve, a vacation of sorts, but this mouth can't run forever.