At the New Years Eve Party, hosted by your friend Todd Welker, you wore blue stretch pants because you were depressed and fat and you knew no one would want to fuck you anyway, so why not be comfortable. Todd made a joke about them when he invited you into his home.
Fuck off, bitch, you said, laughing but not really laughing. Eat me, cunt, said Todd cordially, laughing but not really laughing.
Over there was Stacy Mansion, who you worked with, too (you worked with Todd, too, at the Lab). She smiled and waved and said something about how she loves the New Year and that guy with the plastic face who always does the countdown on television. You both couldn't remember his name, even though he'd been doing it since you were two, and he was always in popular culture magazines television and print.
Dick Clark, someone eavesdropping told you. It was Jeremy Olsen, who you didn't know; he had a brown drink in his hand and a stupid little shiny hat with green tinsel--a festive hat you found very annoying, only on him, for some reason.
You laughed but didn't really laugh. You pulled your stretch pants from your vagina. You could feel them bunching up. You weren't sure if Todd noticed. He probably did.
You didn't want to fuck Todd Welker. Not in the slightest. You didn't want to fuck Jeremy Olsen, either. Not in the least.
While you were fucking Todd Welker, all you could think about was how there was no fucking way you weren't going to throw up your stomach lining all over him. You just hoped against hope that he wouldn't stop fucking you when you inevitably did.
When you threw up all over him, he said ew fucking gross. Goddamn fucking disgusting, he said. But he never stopped fucking you. He fucked you harder. You felt better having thrown up, but you wished there was at least something lying around to clean yourself up with. There was an old Bon Jovi shirt just out of reach. Your pair of blue stretch pants were within your grasp, but what would you wear when you were finally done and had to go back to the party, to meet up with your friend Jessica Holgrafer, the ugly woman you had driven there with.
So you let the vomit sit there, until he finally came inside you and said thanks, babe, you were fun.
Thanks, you said, wiping the vomit off your chest, cleaning a bit of Todd Welker's cum off of your vagina. Thanks a lot, you said.