Chapter One:
Awkward Santana is Awkward

I wish I had better friends. Friends that handled situations better. I wish I had a friend that wouldn't call me pathetic if they, hypothetically, caught me drooling over all of my crushes Facebook pictures in the comfort of my own home. Said friend, instead of becoming a fucking douche, wouldn't make me, their friend, feel bad about my personal ways of using my imagination. This perfect-at-handling-hypothetical-situations friend would probably just leave me alone to my own devices after barging into my room. This friend would at least wait until I finished going through my crush's "Summer at the Beach" album before being an ass. But I do not have good situation-handling friends. No. I have Puck... And a non-hypothetical situation.

"Dude," Puck, my horrible-at-handling-shit friend, began, "you need to just give up on that dream of getting Brittany. I'm sure you've literally fucked up any chance you had with her after that shit you pulled last month."

Now, I know what you're probably thinking: Santana, what in the world could you have done to ruin chances with Brittany Peirce, the cutie with a booty? Well, please allow me to break down the events of what happened on that one fateful night. However, the only way for me to really capture how much I fucking suck is to write in the form of a script.

*All of my side comments shall be marked with an asterisk.

The Night I Accidentally Made Brittany Think I Had A Penis

*This is one of those screenplays where everything is answered in the title, but you still want to know what happened. Like, "The Social Network", or like "Not Another Teen Movie", or "Edward Penishands"... Wait, what?

(The setting of William McKinley High School, where Brittany Peirce is walking through the empty hallway towards the exit.)

(Enter Santana with a popsicle in her pants.)

*Okay, I know what you guys might be thinking: Santana, why was there a popsicle in your pants? Well, I, my friend, have an answer for you: Puck. He dared me to let a popsicle melt in my pants that night. We were playing truth or dare in detention, (another thing Puck got me into), and he's had vengeance since the day I dared him to shave his head. I sort-of chickened out as soon as the popsicle was in my pants and decided that I should go to the bathroom and take it out... I know this whole story sounds suspicious - because it is - but please just let me finish the story before I punch myself in the eye from my stupidity.

(Santana runs into Brittany on the way to the bathroom)

BRITTANY: Ump!

SANTANA: Brittany!

BRITTANY: I'm sorry, I wasn't watching where I was goin -

SANTANA: No, no, I'm sorry.

*You would think that would be the end of the conversation. That I would've just backed away from Brittany and dealt with what was in my pants; or at least tried to cover it up - but no. I do the dumbest thing imaginable. I turn my body directly towards Brittany and try to start a conversation.

SANTANA: So.

BRITTANY: So...

SANTANA: You did good in the dance-thingy last night.

BRITTANY: *giggles her perfect giggle* Thank you, -

SANTANA: Santana. Lopez.

BRITTANY: *giggles again* Well, thank you, Miss Santana Lopez.

SANTANA: No, don't thank me for telling the truth. I mean, the way you moved out there... It was -*insert Santana getting lost in the perfection that is Brittany dancing*

*Now you would think I would have felt that insanely cold popsicle on my crotch. However, in those forty-three seconds of talking to Brittany, I forgot that air existed. So I didn't notice when it started to melt.

SANTANA: *coughs once she realizes she never really said anything less gay in her life* It was amazing. You were amazing.

BRITTANY: *seemly distracted* Oh... Um, okay.

SANTANA: *senses her distraction* Are you okay?

BRITTANY: *starts staring at my crotch*

SANTANA: *starts staring at her breast*

BRITTANY: ...

SANTANA: ...

BRITTANY: You have a spot on your pants.

BRITTANY: You also have a bulge in your pants?

*And this is when I almost died.

SANTANA: Oh, I uh, I uh I - I - I was going to the bathroom to get rid of it.

BRITTANY:

SANTANA: Oh, not like that! I don't - I - God, it's not what you think it I-

BRITTANY: It's okay. I get it.

SANTANA: No, Brittany, I. No, what you're thinking is wro-

BRITTANY: No, Santana, I get it. And don't feel ashamed. You were born that way.

*And with that, she walked away. And as the popsicle melted in my pants, I knew that I would never live past the age of 17. I was going to die of embarrassment.

It's been a month since that sad, tragic day - and everyday has been of constant torment from Puck. The fact that I, single-handedly, made my crush believe I had a penis is the perfect ammo for a shitty-friend like Puck.

"Dude, I repeat," Puck says while standing by my door, "you're fucking pathetic."

"Whatever," I huff after closing my computer. "Isn't there a party we're supposed to be going to?" I stand up from my seat, my regular party-wear clad to my body.

Puck eyes me up and down, "Bro," he says seriously, "where do you hide your penis?"

I punch him in the eye.

The party we're supposed to be going to is actually Rachel's - which means it's gonna suck duck balls. Rachel is one of those people who are loud and obnoxious even when they aren't talking. Which made it to where everything about Rachel annoys me. I just seriously loathe her as a person. I can't even really explain why, either. She's just Rachel, which is actually a good enough excuse depending on who you're saying it to.

I walk into the party like normal: annoyed. And I'll tell you why: fucking Puck. The whole ride over he kept making jokes about any and everything. I wanted to punch him in both eyes by the time we got to Rachel's house. But I restrained from violence because he was my ride home, and Rachel lives out in the boondocks with the cows and shit. If I had on sneakers, I'd probably run home; however, these heels I'm wearing ain't nothing to fucks with. So I will just have to deal with my rage.

So here I am, in front of Rachel's big'ole house, ready to get my dranks on. As I walk through her door, I see way more people than I ever thought was possible at a "Rachel party." There were actually popular people here. And when I say popular, I don't mean people who hang out with Puck and I. I mean people like Brittany, and Mike, and Artie. And Brittany...

And Brittany.