Hashing & Sweating

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
I ready myself for a night of (hopeful) debauchery and chicken. Gonna need some illegal substance to help me on my way first though.

Submitted: December 02, 2016

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Submitted: December 02, 2016

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I feel a crease coming on. Any second- there she is. I laugh uncontrollably, unimpeded by any actual humorous sentiment, induced solely by the hash and nothing more. I catch a glimpse of myself in the smogged up window. The crease promptly ceases. My hair is a mess, a tangle of sandy wires looping over my pale skull in hundreds of randomised patterns, each loop rounding off in a number of frayed ends along my forehead. My eyes are bloodshot as fuck. I peer at them more closely in the mirror and briefly return to my breathless laughter; if she clocks the unashamedly maroon tint of my lively eyes she’ll be out of there faster than I could whip out my eyedrops. That’s the problem with these religious gals; salt of the earth, nicest chicks you could come across, but they get one whiff of a substance that isn’t akin to Holy water and they’ll start shooting their mouth off about how you’re ruining God’s temple. Still, doesn’t mean they aren’t freaky as fuck once you’ve got them beneath the sheets of a single bed in your grubby uni halls. It’s like the very presence of an off-white duvet cover makes them forget that they ever stepped foot in a Church, and before you’ve even started on any light petting they’re gripsing you down there like they’re hunting for communion wine. Nah, it’s getting them there that’s the problem.

You see, you’ve gotta have a relaxed air about you when chirpsing this particular kind of woman. They’re not the kind that rates the cocky-as-fuck-arsehole-type that I so easily embody by dint of it being tailored to my particular brand of personality. Nah, you’ve gotta be mellow, ready to listen, not too overtly keen on smashing. Hence why I’m partaking a mere fifteen minutes before I’m due to take this girl out for a cheeky Nando’s that, if all goes to plan, will culminate in a Netflix and chill with slightly more emphasis on chilling. Ah fuck. Fifteen minutes and I’m still in my boxers, creasing into a window over how bait I’m being. Pull yourself together.

I straighten up. Observe my lips. Fuck. Say what you want about the rest of me, but they aren’t half bad those rougers. Sorta pop out my face like perfectly rounded rosebuds. I guess rosebuds already are perfectly rounded when you think about it. Maybe I should’ve got her some roses, show her that I care innit? Nah, too much. Verging on creepy there. Second date’s a no-no for presents I reckon. Date numero five; chocolates, IF you’ve already got some from her prior. Still, “I was gonna buy you flowers but I thought I’d just give you a taste of these instead” is a decent lead in for a kiss. She won’t give a fuck that no-one tastes flowers. She’ll be too amazed at my linguistic artistry to give a fuck what I’m saying.

Get. The. Fuck. Up.

I’m pulling my jeans on when I clock they’ve got a stain on the knee. Fuck you Party Dan. Rugby tackled me last night, giving me a fearsome graze on my left leg. Not denying it was a fucking laugh at the time, but this could seriously hurt my chances of pulling tonight. And tonight, ladies in gentleman, is all I give a toss about right this second. Which t-shirt am I gonna wear? Could go for my tight white shirt; after all, she turned up in a dress last week and I felt like a right twat in my t-shirt and jeans. Don’t want a re-occurrence of that acute social embarrassment. Nah, who cares, t-shirt will do fine. Ain’t my fault she’s so desperate to impress me. I probably would and all if I was in her position. That position of course being that she never knew boys existed before she turned up at uni. How else dya think I got a date with her? It isn’t my sparkling personality I can tell you that. She’s just too good looking for most boys to try it on with, so that left me to suss out that she’d be happy with any fucker who took the time asking her.

C’mon man, you’re being a bit hard on yourself rn. Shirt on. Docs on. Looking buff. That’s better. Bit of self-aggrandisement is always goof just before a date.  Consider one last drag before I cut. Nah, fuck that, anymore and I’ll be unable to function. I don’t even bother sorting my hair out. She won’t give a fuck. She’ll only be concerned with how good she looks all night. Odds on she looks stunning; no question.

 Crossing the hall. Here’s Clarke, out for a sandwich. Perfect. A bit of practice is necessary, I need to know I can speak to another human being without rolling about giggling. Problem is, this guy’s like a human herb detector. He takes one look at me and a smug grin cracks across his sober face. At it again are we? Thought you had that fancy date tonight? Who, me? Nah mate, dunno what you’re on about. Haven’t had a puff in days. Aye, if you say so, he mocks, casting me a knowing wink as I cut nervously from the scene.

Fucks sake Clarke. Stupid cunt. Completely knocked me off my game that little chance encounter has. C’mon, this is the last thing I need. Paranoia. It soaks through me. I feel my grass-stained knees going weak. My knotted hair drips with fresh perspiration. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why did I leave the house? Fuck. I’m nearly there. She’s gonna clock. Inevitable in a way. Maybe she’ll laugh? Oh yh, good one mate. She’s about as likely to toss you off while waiting for the garlic bread to bake. Ah shit, there’s that salt from English. Always on the back row, always avoiding my very purposefully directed eye contact. Did she just? Yep, no doubt. She smiled and looked away. Oh fucking yes. Oh mate. GET FUCKING IN. I’M ON TOP OF THE WORLD.

This onset of confidence hits just as I waltz up to the jazzed up Nando’s. music’s playing. Ambience is on point. No handsome cunts around to put me off my game or distract her attention. This is calm. I’ve got this. Oh fuck she looks good. Like a nun dressed up in a secretary’s uniform. What. The. Fuck. Why would you think that? Dunno. Just came to me innit. She’s smiling. Hellllooooo. Action.


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