"What the fuck now, Jordan."

The only thing I've learned about Jordan Kyle during our two yearlong acquaintance can be summed up by saying that the boy is about as cliché, stereotypical douche bag jock as you can possibly get from a high school quarterback. Despite this, he was practically sobbing into my eardrums. I would almost feel sorry for the guy, had it not been for the fact that it was a little past one o'clock in the morning. On. A. Tuesday.

"I don't know, man. It sucks. I just—sometimes I like to listen to Taylor Swift because she makes me feel understood, you know. She just gets me in a way Kanye never could."

He was slurring into my cell phone, presumably single and shit-faced. A part of me wonders if he's shit-faced because of the breakup or if he's single because he was unforgivably shit-faced. Another fraction tries to decipher which drug is taking its lovely little joyride throughout Kyle's body (Cannabis? Liquor? Xanax? Crack? Should I prepare the stoner food or the vomit bag?) The overwhelming majority, however, advocated for the comfort of much needed sleep.

"Where. Are. You." My irritation attacked those three words with a certain brand of venom obvious to most onlookers. Most would stop the bullshit, flinch even though the worst I could do to him was figuratively bite his head off on speaker phone. However, this demonic creation continued slurring his song, so my contention was that he was too drunk to notice. Wonderful. Of course he had to be too drunk to notice. "Tell me where you are. I'm picking you up."

"I-I can drive myself. I just-man I just wanted to call and tell you about Taylor Swift's new hit single. She just-she just shaked it off, you know. You know, you should shake it off, shake it off. Oh oh oh."

First off, someone really needs to tell this shithead that just because he's number 21 on the Idris football team doesn't actually mean he's old enough to legally inhale twelve bottles of Scotch. Secondly, Shake It Off is hardly a new single; I mean, has he even bothered to listen to a radio in the past three months? Even I know that, and I could care less about Kyle's apparent lifestyle guru.

"Seriously. I need an address, so I can cart your pathetic ass home."

"Jacey, don't be such a… cumslut."

It was times like these where I even wondered why I had any friends, much less friends like Jordan Kyle.

"Add. Dress. R-Jordan, Stop singing!"

"Add Dressing? I don't see any salads," I hear rustling in the background, followed by the mutual consensus of salad's truly majestical aura and beauty through the cheers and chants of what I can only assume are fellow high school douche bags, "no wait, we can make fruit salad! Yummy, yummy!"

I was losing hope in ever extracting an address from this asshole, who not only has at this point proven his apparent cognitive dysfunction under the influence of, well… whatever he's under the influence of—who can even be sure at this point—he also feels the need to break into song as if his life is some kind of random but infinitely terrible rendition of High School Musical. (Read: Poetry for my not-so-endearing, drunk colleague in 'HSM Minor' by Jace Lightwood. I call this piece Shitfaced Together: "We're all shit-faced together. Once we know, that we are, we're all drunk, we'll see double. We're all shit-faced together. And it shows. That we will, Drink Away, Any Hopes, Of Dreams Coming True.")

God, I don't think I even wanted to crash the salad cult at this point anyways. What sounded better was some nice, warranted hours of warmth, sleep, sheep, and—

"Hey, hey Jace. We should—you should come. Have some… fun. Shake. Shake it off. And play, like the—like the—players in that song" I roll my eyes, unsure of whether to break into hysterical fits of laughter or tears. At this point the raging idiot had sufficiently drowned his sorrows and willowing into recreational drug use, so at least I wouldn't be expected to remedy 'the pain' with the god-awful 'it gets better' mantra.

"We-we're at the LBs. The big L's… you know, Joe… Jonas? No, no, no, John's so tan. John-A-Tan! That's the dude! At the part-ty… Come bro."

Oh, I was going to come, all right. And I was going to drag his happy ass home and out of my sight, even if I had to hit him over the head with a shovel to do so.

I grab Maryse's keys from the front room—careful not to wake her up and consequently subject myself to her wrath because of my favorite idiot's sins—and storm off in a hurry, anxious to return the disoriented quarterback to his undoubtedly more confused, oblivious parents. If I play my cards right, I can be back to heating pads and fuzzy slippers around 2am while witnessing part of a reality TV-esque, Kyle family scream out moment, and I intended to do so.

Somewhere in the drive over to the linebacker's house, the bubbling fit of rage felt around 1:05am—upon waking up and hating my choice in high school comradeship—had gradually faded into something of mild aggravation. I ended up pulling in to the linebacker's driveway at 1:20am. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't drunken teenagers out on a nice enough lawn, swaying to the beat of Barney jams while holding on to their respective Heinekens. Clearly, I'm underestimating the degenerating side-effects intoxication has on the human brain. Or maybe I'm just not giving my species enough accountability for their capacity of utter insanity.

These types of predicaments are the pressing issues about being a teenager in the twenty-first century that most pretentious, 'cultured' journalists strive to mock when referring to the #Selfie generation. It's a moment where the first thing in my mind is debating between which code of conduct is more appropriate; I've limited my options to taking a picture of these sacks of human garbage and posting it to my Tumblr dash (or at least a quick snap chat to like, everyone on my contact list) or to report this Kodak moment to the authorities and weep/complain/pray for the future of humanity in a suburban-white-mother-like fashion.

Sadly, what I'm attributing to my hormones or something compels me to pass up this golden opportunity to be Tumblr famous (and maybe even on local television. Who doesn't want an interview from a high school jock that was actually sober at a kegger party? And you know, his additional detailed account on said drunken teens singing children's rhymes at said kegger party. This is CNN News type stuff. Might as well get my fifty minutes of fame out of the way early in life) and prompts me to find previously mentioned, bitchtastic, waste of humanity Jordan Kyle in a sea of buzzed bodies.

It takes a few minutes to find Jordan in the packed room, and when I do, he just has to be on the other side on the house that seems to be more like a mansion from what I assume to be a living room. I check my phone. 1:30. I'm still making good time, and the allure of darkness and dreaming motivates me to crash my body against the grinding current of my peers. And when I finally get there—oh, of course he's halfway up a stairway with a girl in the freaking house-mansion. Great.

I run up the hallway, easily catching up with my stumbling moron and his girl in tandem. Before latching onto a sizeable portion of his long-flowing hair, I practically collide with said girl—not enough impact to physically knock her over or anything, but enough to make her unsteady her footing a bit—and find myself looking down at a girl. Well, no. More like a spit-fire leprechaun.

I don't own TMI character stuff nor will I ever own TMI character stuff. All I own is my parody of "We're All In This Together."
This is open for continuation. Idk, I kind of like this as a one-shot, however if you guys like it enough, I'll make it a chapter story. It was fun to write soooo~
I would appreciate reviews and feedback. ^-^ Constructive criticism is always wonderful, darlings.