I'm in the Business of Misery {005}

The wait was too much for me. I sat quietly, my thoughts zooming through my mind.

A lot were like this:

Fuck, fuck, fuck… holy fuck, I am a dead fucking woman. FUUUUUCK.

Oh, holy motherfucking caterpillars from fucking Mars! What if my breath smells bad when I talk to him? What if I stutter? What if my zipper to my jeans is unzipped? FUCK.

AHHHHH SHITTTT! Did I hear footsteps? SHIT, I think I just pissed my motherfucking pants.

It was pretty hardcore. I even think I broke up in a sweat. Soon, I couldn't take it.

I tried to focus on Mrs. Spindler's bragging.

"- Oh yes, and Mason, he used to be a great football player. And he always used to wear Hollister, you know, that Prep store. Holy buckets, I love their clothes!" She was ranting.

In my mind, I was stabbing Mrs. Spindler in the eyes with a spork. By the look of my mom's eyes, it looked like she was too.

Let's just say I was a stereotypical bitch. Yes, band tees and studded belts were up my aisle. Along with straight jeans and hair extensions, I was your average "Scene Queen". Or whatever the fuck you've labeling people like me these days.

Let's just say Mason was your typical jock. This is probably what his everyday life consisted of:

-Sex.
-Girls.
-Blowjobs.
-Football.
-Girls.
-Football.
-Sex.
-Sex.
-Sex.

Oh golly, did I mention sex? And I don't even freaking get it! What made Mason so sexy? What made him desirable? Because the only thing I saw when I saw him was plain ole, fucking annoying, jock.

Apparently, that was attractive to girls or something.

Anyhoooo, this tension was starting to make me implode. I smiled softly at my mother, who smiled back, knowing this was probably killing me.

"Mom," I called out, still softly, because I think talking too loud could attract some attention – perhaps the ever-coming Mason's attention.

"Yes, Stacy?" She called back, and I flinched: she wasn't too quiet.

"Uh, I have to use the bathroom!" I called back, and got out of that stupid, lame, tension-holding place. Truth is, little kiddies, I really didn't have to pee. Well, maybe, but that wasn't the point!

The point was Mason –

Screwwwww Mason.

ALERT, ALERT! CUTE EMO BOYTOY, 2 O'CLOCK!

The point was there was a major boytoy close by, duhhhh.

This kid had the whole Emo/Scene thing going on, my stereotypical bitch inside my head told me.

He had black hair, which was almost shoulder-length, but not quite, with a red bandana in it, and way-too tight jeans, a The Devil Wears Prada shirt on with some red-checkered vans.

…He matched pretty well. I can't even match that well.

I fidgeted with my Hello Kitty watch. DANGGGGG. He's fiiiiiiine.

I walked by, shoulders back, my head high. Dude, first impressions were important. I felt his eyes on me, and I immediately felt pride: this hot, amazing, lover boy faggot was totally checking me out. I think I even smirked a little.

I felt like a Scene Queen, when suddenly I was throw off my throne. Literally.

I tripped over my own feet, sending my feet in the air, and my butt toward the floor –

THUM.

I hit the floor. Boytoy, who was watching the whole time, started cracking up. I sent my daggers from my eyes at him. Stupid faggot. Go listen to The Devil Wears Prada, cut yourself, and DIE. DIE CUTE BOY, DIE. Uh.

"Do you need help getting up?" Emo/Faggot/Boytoy asked me, holding out his hand, wearing a smirk I hated.

"NO!" I scrambled up.

"Did you have a nice trip?"

Oh, sarcastic remarks. Damn you.

"Ohh you little –"

"Will I see you next fall?"

"Ahh you stop that, with your stupid little remarks!"

"Hahahah, I'm sorry dear." He was still smirking, letting me know he wasn't sorry. "What's your name?" Emo Faggot slash Boytoy suddenly asked me.

"It's Stacy."

"Ohh, hi, I’m Mason Spindler."

"Yeah, and I'm the Princess of Darkness."

"That's great. But, I'm actually Mason Spindler. Remember? I made fun of you in second grade! S-S-Stammering Stacy!"

"Fuckkkkkk! You stupid, emo, fag, weirdo, wack, crazy, fucker!"