Chapter Two:
The Stupid Things I Do in the Heat of the Moment
To say I was shocked by Brittany's appearance at Rachel's party is putting it lightly. However, I did not let her presence effect me one bit!
Hence why I'm currently hiding in the bathroom.
And I know you're probably thinking two things right now: one being, "Wow, Santana, you constantly know what I'm thinking." Which is true. (Working as the only teacher's assistant of Sue Sylvester for the last three years has taught me a lot of things. Most of them revolve around torture-tactics from 1947, fortune telling, and delivering babies... That's actually whole 'nother story, though) And you're probably also thinking, "Why are you in the bathroom when you could be clearing your penis'ed name?" Well, there's a slight problem with me getting out of the bathroom. I'm lost.
I've been trying to get out of this maze of a "restroom" (if that's its real name) for the last twelve minutes. I, idiotically, ran through Rachel's home like a horse with a hard-on (I know, it's a weird analogy, but just go with it. I couldn't think of anything else.) trying to get away from Brittany. I took, like, four turns and a back alley shortcut before I reached the bathroom. And when I say Rachel's living large - I mean it! Her downstairs bathroom, alone, is the size of my house. (Which is some bull-shit if you ask me.) And now I'm going through door after door trying to find my way back to the party. (I forgot which direction I came from) . I was just about to open another when -
"Rachel, what more do you want from me and my money? I let you borrow my house, for Christ sakes!" said a mystery, whiny voice.
Now, I'm not one to ease-drop, but please believe my ear was now pressed to the door.
"Sugar, please try to comprehend my situation. My peers have never been so amiable towards me before, and I'm sure it has everything to do with your extravagant home. All I'm asking is for you to move through the vacant parts of the house like a clandestine ladybug - at least until the night is through. We have to be safe with our plan. Then, after tonight, you will be listed the club roster and we could just progress from there. It'd be a pyrrhic win for us both!" States the annoying voice of Rachel.
And the whole time Rachel was answering the whiny voice with an unnecessary paragraph of sophisticated word vomit, I wondered how much reading she does. I mean, her vocabulary is just so well-off that it becomes annoying. We get it - you're smart. Shut the fuck up. I also thought about how Rachel was probably crazy, because the only person I've every known who had "big plans" was a fucking nut-job. (You'll learn all about my friend, Quinn, a little later. Maybe when no one is thinking I have a penis.)
I was just moving my ear from the door when I notice a movement from across the room. Now, I'm not one to get scared (I mean, I from Lima Heights), but please believe I screamed like a lil' bitch. And as soon as that scream happened, It triggered me to start thinking about what I've done to deserve a solitary death in a creepy bathroom. I also wondered why me and Puck split-up. We all know in scary movies the people who split up are the first to go. Then, I started to wish I was one of those super-kick-ass fighting people from the movies. Like if I was a special agent or something. But then, I thought about how I got my ass kicked in my last fight and how if I stormed outside trying to Chuck Norris Round Kick someone, I'd probably just end up getting punched in the face. And no one wants to be that guy who has to be examined for concussion after a fight. I was already finding a way to blame Puck for every hypothetical thing before Brittany emerged from behind the unnecessarily and oddly-placed couch, sheepishly.
*The next few moments will be written in script from to, hopefully, ease the awkward that is Santana Lopez.
SANTANA: Oh, god, Brittany! You scared me.
BRITTANY: I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to ease-drop on you.
SANTANA: No, it's fine. Even though you scared me half to death, it's okay.
BRITTANY: *chuckles* Okay. Well, I wanted to talk to yo-
SANTANA: I mean, you could totally kill me if you wanted to.
SANTANA: I'd be totally down with that.
BRITTANY:
SANTANA: But only if you really wanted to.
BRITTANY: *completly and thankfully ignoring Santana's last three sentences* I wanted to talk to you, Santana.
SANTANA: Great, because I wanted to talk to you, too.
BRITTANY: About the other day when I found you pre-masturbation -
*annnnndddd I make a mental note to kill myself later
BRITTANY: - I was thinking about how cool you are. You, like, have a penis. And, you have great boobs. Who wouldn't want to be the best of both worlds?
SANTANA: *completely and stupidly ignoring most of what Brittany said* You think I have great boobs?
BRITTANY: *giggles that giggly giggle before trying to walk away*
SANTANA: Wait, Brittany.
BRITTANY:
SANTANA: I don't have a penis.
BRITTANY:
SANTANA:
BRITTANY: Santana, I already told you that I understand. You don't have to lie to me. If you have something extra, don't be embarrassed about it. I think you're beautiful regardless.
SANTANA: *completely and stupidly forgetting what she was trying to prove* You think I'm beautiful?
BRITTANY: *giggles* Yes. Now, please stop trying to convince me you're something you're not, okay?
SANTANA: *shakes her head negative very fast* No, wait!
SANTANA: I really don't have a penis, Brittany.
BRITTANY: I don't believe you.
SANTANA: *aggressively* No, seriously, I don't have one.
BRITTANY: *dismissively* Whatever you say, Santana.
*And what I do next, my good friends, is going in the history books. I do what I'd only (wet)dreamed of doing. I pull down my skinny jeans in a frustrated, heated fashion and flash Brittany in a huge bathroom . For the next few moments, Brittany is just looking between my vagina and my eyes. After three minutes of silences and staring, I pull back up my pants.
BRITTANY: You aren't wearing any underwear.
*Moments like these I wish I didn't use the theory of "one-two-skip-a-few" with wearing panties.
SANTANA: No... I'm not.
BRITTANY:
SANTANA:
BRITTANY:
SANTANA: But.. I think I proved my point of not having a penis.
BRITTANY: Yes, you did prove that you don't have a penis.
*and what I do next, my good friends, is going down in the "why I will probably die alone" category.
SANTANA: Well, since I kind of flashed you ...
BRITTANY: Yeah?
SANTANA: Could I maybe... I don't know... Feel a boob?
* I don't really know what happened after I said that, because I started to black-out from mentally killing myself; but I can confirm she did, in fact, punch me in the face.