My Wish Upon A Star

Chapter 9 - I Don't Have Hairy Nipples

Chapter 9

I Don’t Have Hairy Nipples

I didn’t do a lot of productive things in my life. So, okay I was drunk most of the time, or doing some stupid job—usually drunk too though. But I wasn’t exactly productive. Aside for one thing.

My parents, being the anti capitalist they were, weren’t the kind of people to buy me jewellery. And I was a girly girl growing up, so I wanted god damn pretty things. So I had to do them myself. And thus began my probably only healthy pastime—making jewellery. I wasn’t extraordinary at it, and for instance, I’d never wear them on a date with Victor because he would tell me that if I needed jewellery he could buy me real ones and even if the prospect of free real diamonds was always appealing, I didn’t want him to undermine my own jewellery. I didn’t want it to be thought as less then any real stuff you could find at Tiffany’s.

            So tonight was jewellery night which consisted of me sitting in the middle of my living room surrounded by boxes over boxes of beads and threads and all sort of things in the like, with a bottle of Scotch as my partner in crime while watching Skins episodes.

            It was a sweet way to spend a night.

But when I was about half way through my Scotch, my night was cut short when I heard rattling at the door. At first I thought I was just starting to hear noise because of the booze, but then it got louder, like someone was trying to jam a key in the lock and it wasn’t working and they were getting pissed.

And I was getting slightly pissed too. For a second I considered ignoring it—they probably had the wrong door, but then whoever was at the door started to kick it and pound on it and shout incoherent things, so that’s pretty much when I realized I had to take matters into my own hands.

I got my baseball bat from my bedroom closet and took my phone, dialling 911 without pressing call just yet. For all I knew this might be Miss Beauregard trying to get her wicked way with me. I wouldn’t get it past her.

The kicking and grumbling was still going on—maybe we were getting attacked by trolls—so before I beat the crap of whoever was on the other side of the door, I looked through the peephole and was speechless for about half a second.

This is seriously not happening…

            I jerked the door open and a drunken Landon stumbled forward, almost dropping the beer in his hand on my feet.

            Miss Beauregard was sticking her head out of her apartment, shouting, “You don’t live here anymore young man! You have no right to cause such havoc in our building! You little trouble maker!” All she needed was a broom to shoo him away, seriously, crazy old people that don’t mind their own god damn business annoyed the crap out of me!

            “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, him, eyebrows raised, not amused.

            “What are you doing in my apartment?” he said, trying to peek inside over my shoulder.

            “You mean to say my apartment,” I pointed to myself to make sure he understood that by my, I met MINE.

            He frowned, clearly confused. That made the two of us buddy. “I don’t remember us ever being roommates.”

            “That’s because we’re not,” I simply stated.

He didn’t seemed convinced though, and, eyes narrowed, said in a sceptical tone, “If we’re living together, I want to see your boobs.”