It's Jess. Of course it's Jess. Who else would it be? I'm drunk, not pimping. Anyhow, I'm lying on top of him. He's waking up, he's waking up… and he's… Kirk?

I scream. More like shriek, which ends up morphing into the sound a deranged chicken makes when it's headed into the shredder. Not an attractive sound, to say the least.

I jump off the bed, coming face to face with a portrait of an old man holding a fish, sharing a rather striking resemblance to Taylor…

"Young lady you should be ashamed of yourself!" Taylor in the portrait yells abruptly, swinging the fish at me, "Booking a room for one when clearly," he gestures towards Kirk, "There's two of you."

"Honey," Kirk says, his voices deepens, his features slowly melding into that of… Dean? "Did you tuck Lem in?"

Lem? What the hell is—

"Our children need their sleep," Dean continues tantalizingly, "All 16 flavors. Lemon, Citrus, Nectarine, Tang—

"Rory!" Jess yells, bursting into the room. Oh Jess. Thank god there's at least one sane being in here—

"I love you!"

…and I'm clearly mistaken again. He what?

"You what?" I say, my mouth is moving but the words aren't coming out.

"Come away with me!"

Insane. Very very very insane. But not as insane as waking up next to Kirk. Okay.

"Okay," I mouth. No sound. It's like it's the defining moment of a television movie and some idiot has decided to sit on the mute button. I try again, still no avail.

He turns around to leave, disappearing into the hall. Damn it Jess, I yell—still muted, of course. Kids, dozens of tiny kids wearing "hi my name is" followed by a citrus flavor nametags and dressed in gum wrappers at my feet, "Mommy! Mommy!"

I'm screaming now. Screaming, screaming…

Taylor whacks me on the head with the fish, shaking his finger, "Nuh uh uh, 19.95 a night. Nuh uh uh, 19.95 a night. Rebates are for members only. Rebates are for members only. Rebates are—Damn it Rory wake up!" Water. Splashing me in the face.

Cold, cold water. I blink. One, twice. I shake my head, opening my mouth to make some half-hearted remark about solar heating before he splashes me again.

"Jesus, stop screaming! I swear, half our mirrors have shattered…" Taylor again, this time sounding strangely similar to… Jess?

And… I'm dreaming. Thank god. Thank thank thank god. I bolt up from my resided position on the floor of Jess' bathroom—I seem to have a particular liking towards lavatory grounds. Noting with much relief there was no Kirk in sight. Or Taylor. Or tiny ankle-biting toddlers named after citrus fruits. Instead though, Jess is kneeling in front of me. And wow, look, he's holding a cup of water—which of half the contents are spilled on my head. I can't be looking too gorgeous right now, to say the least. But Jess, modeling a lovely scowl on his face and appearing very much like the posterboy for insomnia, isn't much better off.

I squint at him, "Jess?"

"At least you're not calling me Kirk anymore," he gets up off the ground are goes over to the sink to refill the cup, "You know you're very scary when you're drunk. You started singing along to Dolly Parton, where I'd rather not think about how or why you know the words to Straight Talk. And after counting every last one of the marijuana leaves on the wallpaper, you named them after soap stars from the 80s, where you stopped at Heather Locklear to pursue the daunting task of making me a pirate hat out of napkins."

A pipe in the sink or something gets stuck, he nonchalantly gives it a whack, causing it to sputter and in one last sigh of defeat, continue to spray hopefully filtered sink water more or less inside the cup, "And after going through an entire napkin dispenser with no avail, the bartender had enough sense to kick us out. And might I add, when going to a bar, the last thing I expect to get kicked out for is for using up 50 rolls of napkins."

At this, he hands me the water. Water, good old H2O. Okay, now just tilt your head back and pour…

Ow! Ow ow ow… Pain! Pain! Don't like pain!

I let out a groan of anguish, hitting my head against the seat of the toilet bowl in the process, an action that no doubt is doing nothing for the painful banging in the depths of my head, "Will someone please tell Matthew McConahey that my brain is not a bongo?"

"Oh well I'm sure it's a relief to his neighbors that he's no longer taken up with playing them at his house in the nude anymore."

I send him my withering glare. The same one I shot Chuck Presby in the seventh grade when he decided he felt a sudden urge to stick his hand up my skirt one day, "Are you taking amusement in my obvious state of pain, doctor evil?" Doctor Evil? Ouch, I really need to touch up on my pop culture references.

Ahhh... Ringing in my ears. Ringing, buzzing, ringing…

"Ror—your cellphone, which you're currently sitting on at the moment, is ringing."

Oh. That explains a lot. I'm going to kill whoever's on the other line for making my head pound in pain, "What?"

"It's me. I'm on my way to see you."

"… God?"

"No, Dean. You know, your fiancé?" …This is the part where the water, which had originally entered through my mouth, exited through my nose. "Who you haven't seen for the past two days?" He says slightly louder, over my sputtering.

"Oh." Has it really been that long?

He sighs, "How's Jess?"

"He's great, why?" Shoot. I hit my head with the palm of my hand afterwards, cursing my stupidity for affirming that indeed, I was with Jess. The same Jess who Dean happens to strongly dislike for some unknown reason beyond me. That alcohol is really screwing up my brain cells.

"I just overheard your mom tell Luke, and these are the exact words she used, 'Today is Rory's first sleepover with a boy. Named Jess. I hoped she brought her pretty pajamas and necessary contraptions.'"

Curse my mother and her obscenely loud vocal points.

I chuckle nervously, shooting a helpless look at Jess, "Uh, well, that's Lorelai for you. My alive and breathing mother who is a little too alive and breathing for her own good. But I'm sure I can fix tha—hold on, call waiting."

I switch over, thankful for the stall time, "Hello?"

"Your fiance heard me tell Luke about your sleeping with Jess."

"You're making me sound like a hooker. And thank you for informing me so, about ten seconds too late."

"So… did you remember the contraptions?"

"Mom!"

"Right, right. Sorry," A beat, "So did you?"

"I'm not sleeping with Jess!" I say not-too-quietly, provoking a startled look from a previously insomnia ridden Jess. Because I inherited my cursed mother's obscenely loud vocal points, you see.

I shoot him a sheepish grin, feeling my face turn into the temperature equal to that of a Dante's Peak in the midst of it's explosion. Preferably the part where Pierce Brosnan gets buried by those falling rocks.

He shakes his head in response, scratching his Don King-esque type hair and heading out the bathroom, leaving me alone. In his bathroom. On the floor. Half draped over the toilet. It all seems very surreal, somehow.

"Hon? Rory? You still there? Do I have to speak whale to get your attention?"

"Right, sorry. Go ahead mom."

"All right. Aaaare yyyyou stiiiill—

"Mom you'll wake the neighbors."

"Oh they're already up. My screaming must've set them off from when I lit the toaster on fire half an hour ago."

"How—oh god have mercy did you try to cook?"

"… Maybe. I might'vehad a sudden mile-deep craving forcookies."

"You don't use toasters to bake cookies, Sara Lee."

"You're telling me."

"Well was anybody hurt?"

"No. We might be having cold poptarts for the weeks to come though. Until we find ourselves a replacement for Phil, anyway."

"Phil? Who's—Mommy, have you been dirty again?"

"Oh no sweetie, lady's night at Pattys' isn't until Thursday. Phil's just the--" there was a distinct crash on the other end, "Ow! Ow! Aw man the-- shoot! Well, scratch out microwaveable pizza from the list, too."

From what I can interpret, the crash from the other end could only mean my mother has singlehandedly succeeded in destroying every last domestic kitchen utensil in the Gilmore household, "Did you kill Frank again?"

"Don't accuse mommy of murdering the microwave when she's clearly in distress, my villainous child," she pauses for a moment, "Hey, did never told me how your conversation with Dean went."

Dean.

…Uh oh.

Mumbling hasty curses that would've made even Jess proud, I switched over to my long-neglected fiancé, "Dean! Sorry. So, uh, where did you say you were at, right now?"

"Your front step. Or technically, Jess' front step. Wow. This place is like a shoebox."

This cannot be good. No it can not.

"Uh, hold on, please. D-Don't ring the doorbell!" Don't panic. Don't panic, "Don't ring it! I mean it!" Not panicking. "I mean, Jess is sleeping. And you don't want to him to wake up because trust me, the guy looks like Weird Al on acid when he's awakened prematurely from his R.E.M state snore-fest. Just kidding! Jess doesn't snore. Or does he? I should check sometime. But not now. Because, you know, I'm not sleeping with him. Oh no not in that sense! Or in the other sense. Or in any other sense for that matter because, uh, I'm kind of half-married to y-you." See? Not panicking at all. "Hold on please."

Never before have I been so thankful to have my mother on the other line. I switch over, "Mom—you can stop speaking whale now, I'm back."

"Oh. Okay good. Luke was starting to get annoyed."

Luke? "L-Luke?"

"Yeah. He's over here right now. To fix Phil. And Frank. He's like superman, I swear. He's got the spear and everything!

I hear Luke calling exasperated in the background, "It's a screwdriver, Lorelai."

She scoffs gleefully, "Dirty. Well, I've got to get back to my toaster strudel conceiving savior, bye Rory!"

Dial tone is ringing in my ear before I could even let out a scream of frusteration. Shoot. To top it off, Dean's still on the other line, my head is still one step away from chemically combusting and splattering all over the floor of Jess' bathroom, and yes, Jess does snore because I could hear him all the way from in here. Even as I'm covering my ears right this second. Covering my ears and about one second away from igniting into a full blown panic attack involving razors, exploding heads, screaming, feathers, chainsaws—

No! Focus, Rory, focus. Dying and combusting into thousands of little pieces will not help your odds. Answer the door, yes, that's what you do. Answer the door before Dean gets tired of waiting and decides to ring the doorbell. This way, Jess will continue his state of REM sleep, your brain will still be intact, and all will be well in the world

OOO

All is well in the world. I have exited the shoe-box imitation-like premises and am now residing inside Dean's car. Where we are sitting in silence. Not counting his horrendous Reggae Fever CD blasting through the speakers.

I speak first, "Remind me to burn this CD for you when you're out of town."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Back to silence. Painful, awkward silence.

And turning awkwarder by the second as he is now wrapping his arms very suddenly around my waist and taking absolutely no notice my breathing was becoming equal to that of a fish out of water.

"Uh, Dean?" What the hell are you doing? I want to shriek, What the heck in hell are you trying to—"What exactly are you doing?"

He doesn't answer. Or maybe nuzzling his mouth against my ear is an answer enough in Sexual-innuendo-land, I don't know. I wouldn't know. Jess would know. Tristin would too. And so would every girl he'd ever taken for a short trip into the supply closet, for that matter. Why am I thinking of Tristin and Jess when my boyfr—er- fiance's sticking his tongue in my ear? Holy cow when did that happen! Okay, time to push him off.

"Okay Dean I think it's time to—Ah! Whoa dental regions to yourself please…" I sit up very suddenly, scooting as far off as I can, "It's not that I don't enjoy your, uh, tonguing, but what are you doing?"

Dean sighs, leaning back in his seat, "I just thought—Rory, how long have we been together?"

How long? How long how long… "… A long time?"

"Yes. That's why, I, uh," He looks nervous. Why is he nervous? He's sweating. Why is he sweating? This can't be good. Sweating can never lead to anything good, "I think we should go to the next step."

I'm pretty sure I've eaten my mouth or something. Because somebody has obviously decided it'd be funny to sew my lips together. Say something. Say something. Say—

"Oh-kay…." I say. Shoot. That's not what I—

"Okay?" he looks surprised, "You mean… okay? Or just okay?"

"…." Which one is the one that screams NO NO NO NO NO? Oh yeah, "No. I meant no."

Wow. He looks like I shot his dog. This is more than a half-drunk half-hungover girl can handle.

"Oh," he looks humiliated, pulling back, "Oh."

"Look, Dean. You're a very, very… good guy." If you don't count the fact you tried to stick your tongue in my ear a couple seconds ago, "And I'm sure one day, just not now, we'll be… uh… you know. But this, for the time being, is really, really, not a good idea. Really, not."

He's straining to keep his face straight, "Okay, it's okay. I mean, um, you want to wait for our wedding night, it's fine."

Wedding night.

It very suddenly feels like the cafeteria lady's churning the contents in my stomach in circles.

Jesus, I'm not even ready for sex with him, how the hell am I supposed to get married?

"Dean," I start to say, "I don't think—" I stop at that. Because hello, I don't think the guy could take another rejection, "I think I should go now."

And I go. Back up the stairs. Back to Jess' shoebox apartment. Back to the ground outside his door, because I realize I don't have the key and I really don't feel like facing any human lifeform, funny hair or not, right now. And may I mention, I did this all while feeling equivalent to scum scrubbed off the bottom of a safari-trekker's boot.

I don't remember how long I sat there. Time flies pretty fast when your head's quaking in pain and there's funny designs in the peeling wallpaper to keep you occupied. Liz was actually the one to find me first. She went out to clean the doormat, and there I was. Sitting on the dirt-encrusted Welcome mat.

And while I was residing on her formentioned on the dirty doormat, she invited me to her bachelorette's party. Forced me was more like it. Because, as she said, "We booked Bendy Ben, the special exotic male dancer who strips down around Arlington someplace-or-other. It's a big step up from Brucie B, the guy has more STDs than a hormonally enhanced lab rat. And plus he's as stiff as a beanpole, ya can't do anything with him. Know what I mean?"

No I don't know what you mean. And I really wouldn't want to know what you mean.

Luckily, Jess came barreling over a couple seconds later, stopping his mom from "corrupting the fucking town paragon," as he put it. All while grabbing my arm and dragging me away from the likes of his wildly generative mother into the safety of his room.

OOO

If Bendy Ben is considered high class stripping, I'd hate to see what Brucie B. is.

After a R-rated remake of a male-versioned Moulin Rouge complete with feather hats which let me tell you, were more feather than hat, Bendy Ben managed to make it halfway through a gutty rendition of a tribute to John Travolta before he was brutally attacked by the mob of Lizs' deprived friends. Liz herself included. Apparently the words 'getting married' in Liz-world still find it okay for her to go around chasing male hookers in feathers. But hey, I'm not judging. All the more power for her, I guess.

Jess joins me by the punch bowl 20 minutes later, where I'm sitting, covering my eyes to avoid seeing middle-aged women snapping the undergarments of a miserable male-hooker forced into a gown not even Nicole Kidman would wear.

"Is it over yet?" I question her through the safety of my fingers.

He casts a quick glance over to the stripper table, "I'd give it about 5 more minutes." He turns his attention back to me, "So where'd you go this morning?"

Might as well tell him. "Dean kind of came over."

"Kind of?" I can't tell if he's mad or not. Maybe it's because I'm still covering my eyes.

I let my hands drop. Big mistake. I find myself looking over at a very disturbing scene involving… well, I saw a nipple ring where you really shouldn't be finding a nipple ring, let's just leave it at that.

"Okay, so he did come over," I admit, gulping down a rather large amount of punch to keep my mouth occupied while I search for something to say, "Nothing happened though," No reply. "I mean, we kissed- he tried to stick his tongue in my ear at one point," Did I just say that? "But I swear that's all that happened!" Haha… Liar, "Okay maybe not." I'm talking to myself more than anything now. First sign of an oncoming case of insanity? "He wanted to sleep with me." I finished my monologue at that.

Jess had previously been sipping a large cup of punch, which had been in his mouth preparing to be swallowed. Unfortunately the punch was now less in his mouth, more on the table after this statement was made.

He coughs, "Shit. He w…" he stops, shaking his head, "God I need a drink right now. You didn't do it did you?

"No I didn't 'do it'," I tell him, rather offended.

"Are you sure?"

"Jess, I think I would be the first to know if I have sex or not."

"Unless you're drunk. Were you drunk?"

"No mother, I wasn't drunk."

"Jesus…" he rubs his hands on his face, sliding back in his chair, "Where the hell is the bartender? Hey!" he grabs the shirt of an unsuspecting man in an apron, "Get me a keg, will you?"

"You're not 21."

"And you're a regular Sherlock Holmes. But that's not what my mother and her hormonally discharged chick friends are paying you for, is it? Get me a beer."

He still refuses, like any other bartender who wants to keep their job. I grab Jess' face in my hands, forcing him to look at me, "Look, Jess, I haven't been completely honest with you about Dean."

He groans, "Here we go."

I choose to ignore him, "He and I are en—" …engaged. Engaged engaged engaged! Damn it why can't I say it? Calm down, deep breath, take a long sip of punch and try again, "he and I are…"… say something! "He and I are meeting for coffee tomorrow." Chicken. Wimp. Wuss. Sissy.

He narrows his eyes, "Is that, what, like a code for something?"

"No, it's just coffee. If we were going to have wild unadulterated sex in Taylor's backyard, I would have told you were practicing for the Music Man screenplay."

"So when you start marching around furry top hats, I should be worried?"

"Precisely." Wow, is it just me or is the room starting to spin? I take another swing of punch.

"Okay then," he turns around to yell at the bartender, "Hey! How long does it take to get a beer around here?"

Jess eventually gets his beer, I think. I wouldn't know. Everything became fuzzy after my 10th cup of punch.

OOOO

Not again. Ugh. Not again not again not again...

Jess. I'm lying on top of Jess. Yes, again. It's morning, the birds are (or should be) chirping, but I wouldn't know, I'm in a motel room for gods' sake. Only this time, it's not a dream. And I should know, I've pinched myself four times already.

"This isn't happening, this isn't happening," And there's a portrait of an old man on the wall. An old man who looks like Taylor. This can't get any worse.

Oh wait, there're tiny dancing cats on the wallpaper. Okay now it can't get any worse.

Maybe I could hide in the bathroom? … No, that would involve getting up. Not a good idea considering my underwear is hanging from the doorknob.

Cry? Technically, according to every soap opera or angsty lifetime movie my mother and I have ever indulged upon, I should be crying. But strangely enough, I don't feel like bursting into a flood of tears and screaming about the bane of my existence. Nope. If anything, I'm relieved.

Until the reality of the situation comes crashing down. The fact that I'm engaged, Dean is going to go bananas, Luke is going to go bananas plus haywire, my mother would probably never let me watch Runaway Bride again for as long as I live, my grandma will file harassment charges, Jess will spend the rest of his fugitive- on- the- run life paying off the forementioned charges, Lane's mom will hear of this and force her to retreat into a convent, and Lane will spend the rest of her life hating me for igniting her mother to move her into the convent.

And on top of all that, I'm starting to feel sick. If there was any doubt in my mind my actions last night were fueled by very, very spiked punch at a certain bachorlette party, this hangover will wipe them clear off the charts. I can barely hear a thing will all the hammering going on in my skull.

Oh great. And now Jess is waking up. He groans, squinting at me, "Rory? What the hell are— Holy crap!" And he has seen the old man holding the fish, "Please tell me we did not just have sex in this room with Taylor senior watching over us."

I'm not listening. You know why? I'm holding something in my hands. You know what they are?

I slam the papers on the bed, "Marriage License papers. June 23, Jess Mariano and Rory Gilmore wed at the Fisherman Wharfing Motel Church."

He snatches the papers from the bed, "You're kidding me right? Christ—" followed by a series of curses that even Howard Stern would be impressed with.

All of a sudden, the bathroom doesn't seem like such a bad place to be.