Fine

White wine tastes like shit. This brand in particular tastes like spicy grape juice mixed with piss. Yellowtail. Fitting. I down another glass.

Oh god, I drank that way too fast. My gag reflex flares up and I think I might have to vomit everywhere and blame it on someone else. I hold a hand tight to my mouth and shut my eyes. I whisper a small mantra to myself, choking down the contents of my insides. “You’re fine if you say you’re fine. And I’m fine.”

It’s probably four in the afternoon. I haven’t checked the clock since three so I think it’s a good bet. Normally I’d be napping or something but today feels different.

It’s just one of those days, I guess.

I’m sprawled out on the couch in the lobby and there’s no one in sight. Drinking alone, watching TV in an old ZFL jersey. I’m like Al, except I look great and I’m not a loser burnout.

Some stupid reality show is on. You know, everybody likes to shit on trashy TV but I appreciate how terrible it can be. In a way, it’s comforting to know that stupid people exist. Really makes you appreciate just how much better you are in every way.

I go for another drink and remember I just annihilated a glass. I reach for the bottle on the table and realize that’s empty, too.

Fuuuuck. Looks like I need to go back to my room and get more. I lurch forward and put my feet on the ground. At first I’m not too sure if I can walk properly, but I haven’t had THAT much to drink. I get up and stay up. Discounting the fact that my legs feel like jiggly stilts and my head feels too heavy for my body, I’m in great shape to be walking up stairs. I turn my head over my shoulder and look at the empty couch behind me. If there’s someone in it by the time I get back with more booze, I swear to god I’m going to commit murder.




I never thought that I’d spend the rest of my days in prison (actually, maybe a little), but I guess that’s just what the universe intended for me. Dropping the bottle of whiskey in my hand, I quickly pull out my flick knife and stab the living cotton swab on my couch until he looks like a used tampon.

Kidding. I sneak up behind him and blow in his ear. He flinches so hard he hits his head on the couch’s arm, and the bleat he makes is so unbelievably girly I’m not sure if I even need to make a quip about it. He looks up at me, eyes wide in fear and back pressing so hard into the cushions that for a second I’m sure it’s going to absorb him and take him for its own. It’s almost cute, the fear in his eyes. How he actually thinks that I might eat him.

I wave, putting on my best fake smile that’s fake enough to let the other person know that it’s fake. “Hey there, Cormo! Want a lollipop?” I pull a sucker out of my back pocket and offer it to him. Please say yes so I can say “too bad” and eat it anyway.

He glares at me. “Fancy seeing you here. I’m good, thanks.”

Shit. I roll my eyes and pop it into my mouth. “Suit yourself.” I run my tongue over the surface, enjoying the flavor as it leaks out and mixes with my saliva. “I can’t help but notice that you’re on the couch.”

I can literally see the sass meter turn up in his eyes. He gets up and pointedly leans against the arm of it. He puts a hand on his chest, acting shocked. “I am?”

“I was there first. Get off.” I make a show of baring my sharp, sharp teeth.

That fear in his eyes is back, but he’s learning. He has a dumb smirk on his face within a few seconds. “You were? Cool. Here’s the thing, Avo. I’m here NOW, and I’m not inclined to leave anytime soon. My favorite show is on.” He gestures to the TV.

“Oh? What show is that?”

“The one where the vixen fights the otter in the limo over pizza.”

I don’t have time for this. I hop on from the back of the couch and stretch the entirety of my body over it, resting my legs on the frowning cloud’s lap. Immediately he looks disgusted, and I think he’s going to get up and leave, but he sits there in silence. He crosses his arms and makes a little frustrated huff that I’ve only seen 12 year olds in movies do.

“You think you could get your legs off of me?”

“No can do, marshmallow.” I laugh a little and take a long swig of Jack. “You see, my doctor says that if I’m not comfortable while I’m drunk, I might go savage and attack the nearest mammal my instincts deem the most delicious.”

Shaun the Sheep blinks a few times before actually hearing me. “So you’re drunk. THAT’S why you’ve been moving around like an overcooked pasta noodle.”

“Funny. Maybe you should take a shot or two, could help you from walking around with the bearings of an old, wooden nutcracker one would typically find in an antique shop.” I extend my bottle arm. An alcoholic olive branch that’ll hopefully make his company just a little more tolerable.

His weird frog eyes repeatedly flick back and forth from my face and the bottle, and then he takes it. I turn towards the TV, which now shows a lioness walking around a bedroom (probably not hers) and using her claws to tear up expensive looking dresses. I can hear Remmy beside me, gulping down my firewater like his father probably did in his youth. He finishes his drink with a little sigh in disgust.

“That stuff is gross.”

“S’not supposed to taste good, Cormo.” I take the bottle back without breaking my gaze from the screen. There’s a hippo girl yelling at the lioness, now. I hope they fight. That would be an interesting match. “You drink to get drunk. Not to “admire the subtle taste of oak and cinnamon” or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t see why you can’t do both.”

I don’t respond, instead choosing to take another swig. Remmy rests his elbow on the couch and his temple on his palm. We both pay close attention to the absolute garbage being displayed to us. Minutes go by and the bottle goes back and forth between our hands as hippos shake their asses and wolves gossip about the biggest cocks they’ve taken.

Before I know it, I’m bored. I look at the living pillow out of the corner of my eye. He’s bored too. I decide that it’s time to get a little friendly conversation going. “Hey, fuckface.” My voice is slurred, which is surprising. How much have I drank? I sound like an old dude at a bar trying to pick a fight.

“Yes, Avo?” he says through gritted teeth. Seems like he doesn’t know yet that even if he doesn’t take my bait, making it painfully obvious that he’s trying his hardest to NOT take my bait is still as satisfying as taking my bait.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“What?”

“Whatever’s got you in a shite mood, Q-Tip. There has to be a reason you didn’t soil yourself when I flashed my fangs at you earlier.”

He looks confused, and then “Uh, just a bad day at work.”

“Mmm.” I stretch, twisting this way and that. Our resident whipped cream monster grimaces at the popping of my spine.

“Do YOU want to talk about it?”

Fucking what? “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I’ve never seen you drink before. During the day, especially.”

I bite down, crunching the lollipop clean in half. “Well, you’ve been here for all of one month, so it’s not like you know anything about anything.”

He raises his hands in submission, and we fall silent. But only for a few seconds because I’m still bored as hell.

“Hey, do you want to replace all of the twins’ lube with rubbing alcohol?”

“No.”



Remmy is clearly unhappy. That’s not much of a descriptor though. He is, at most points of the day, clearly unhappy. He’s anxious. No, that doesn’t work either.

Point is, he’s too much of a pussy to go and mess with people and we were both hungry, so now we’re making grilled cheese in the bathroom…oh shit. I clap a hand on the abominable snowram’s shoulder. He looks back at me, away from the grilled cheese that he’s been closely watching for a whole minute now.

“We’re drunk. As in, really drunk.” I tell him. My hearing feels like it’s covered in fuzz and my movements feel like they’re in a laggy video game. Someone’s playing music on this floor and it sounds like its coming from right next to me. I am actually tolerating the company of a rejected stuffed toy.

The talking pack of pillow stuffing raises an eyebrow at me. “No. You’re drunk. I’m fine.”

“Cormo. We are making grilled cheese in your bathroom.”

“Yeah. And?”

He has a point, but I have a better idea. His shoulders are like maracas, I shake them so hard. “Remmy. We need to finish making this grilled cheese and then we’re going to burn Marty’s book collection.”

“Hold on, is this my real cheese?”

“Yes.”

He attempts to touch it, but misses and makes contact with the surface of the plug in grill instead. His screams ring in my ears so much I need to exit the bathroom and––



I wake up and we’re back at the lobby. For some reason. There’s a game playing. Ball. The basket variety. My legs are back in Remmy’s lap and he’s letting it happen. “I don’t remember the last ten or so minutes.”

“Eh.” he waves an arm dismissively. “You broke Marty and Charlie’s door down. Luckily they weren’t home. Then I convinced you to come back here. You proceeded to yell at me until I sat down and then you took a nap.”

“Oh.” I scratch my head. “Why did I black out?”

“You explained that before you took a trip to dreamland. You know, I think we’re gonna be switching between the explainer and the explainee for the rest of the day. Only a matter of time before I pass the fuck out like you did.”

An empty bottle on the ground catches my eye. The whiskey from earlier. I nearly roll of the couch trying to get it but I manage to pick it up without having to stand. I read the label. “Oh shit, stiff peaks, we weren’t chugging whiskey. It was—“

“Sketchy moonshine that Charlie gave you? Yeah.”

I bring my chest up and get nice and close to the friendly neighbourhood welcome mat. We must look like some weird, perverted version of a kid telling santa what she wants for Christmas. “Why the FUCK didn’t you say something?!”

He must be really drunk, because he doesn’t even flinch. All he does is look at me unamused. “Can you get your alcohol breath out of my face? This is the second time we’ve had this conversation.”

I lie back down, looking up at the ceiling as I shove my hand into my back pocket. “Where the fuck are my—“

“You threw all of them at some kids passing by.”

Oh FUCK. Not again. I drag a hand over my face as a billion options and game plans start popping into my head. It’s only when I feel the animated ball of used towels jiggling that I realize something isn’t right. I can’t help but smile as I catch the look on his face. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

He lets out a giggle, giving himself away. “Well, the thing about hell given liquid form by a squinty vixen was real. You also actually took a nap. ”

I try to punch him in the arm but I’m too reclined to reach him. He wheezes out a laugh and I’m joining him a second later. “You’re a motherfucker, you know that?”

He smiles, and for once I don’t think he’s afraid of me in any capacity. “The fuck-est.”

“Oh god, look at what that crack has done to us. Our clever back and forth is in shambles.” My head feels funny. I roll it around on the couch cushion. Which is a bad idea now that I think about it since its only helping a little bit. “What do you do for a living?”

“What? Why?”

“You’re clearly up for no fun so we’re going to talk and I’m going to make fun of your life choices.”

He sighs. “I move shit onto trucks.”

“No shit? That’s exactly the kind of unimportant, mild mannered job that I’d expect out of you. Have you ever had, like, a sweater made out of your own wool?”

At first he looks mildly horrified, and then he chuckles. “I haven’t but I have made earplugs out of my own wool, at your suggestion actually.”

“Really?” I ask. I’m surprised he has that much common sense. “Not bad.”

The dandelion nods his head, but doesn’t offer anything more.  I think he’s waiting for my next question. A smile works its way onto my face as I try and think of the next one. Could it be? He’s actually enjoying this? It makes sense, I guess. People love to tell other people about their boring ass lives.

“Okay, be serious here. Are you a predo?”

And that, like any well timed purposefully aggravating question, gets a strong reaction from him. He looks like he’s about to burst into mist and join his brothers in the clouds. “God, no!”

“You know it’d be fine if you were, though? I mean, Annie’d probably up her game and everyone would constantly rag on you, but it’d be fine.”

“No.”

“You mean to tell me that not once in your life you have found a predator sexually attractive.”

“No! Why are we even talking about this? Who cares?”

I roll my eyes. “Cormo, these are normal questions in a normal conversation between–“ I stop myself. Oh god. I don’t even want to think about what I would have said if I continued with that sentence. I look over at the googly eyed scoop of vanilla ice cream for any cues, but he’s still waiting for an answer. Ugh. I wish I had more moonshine. Or lollipops. “You never told me where my candy was.”

He points to the ground beside me, and I look over to see a pile of suckers within arms reach. One’s in my mouth in seconds.




I’m pretty dry on things I want to know about Remmy Cormo, so we end up watching the game for a good ten minutes. Every so often we’ll make comments on how terrible the players are doing or how annoying the casters are. All in all, I think my inebriation has mellowed out a little. Definitely won’t be breaking down Marty’s door anytime soon. Unless he was asking for it.

“Hey, Remmy. Remmy.”

“What.”

“Cormo.”

“What.”

I burp aggressively.

“Wonderful. Anything else you––?”

“Do you ever just feel bad?”

My question gives him pause.  I’m not sure where this is coming from, myself.

He doesn’t respond immediately so I keep going. “I mean, you’re a run down, piece of shit, good for nothing, skinnyfat, uptight, unhappy literal sheep among wolves. You probably have plenty of nights that you spend alone and awake at odd times, thinking to yourself, “Just how in the world did I get here?” and never finding an answer. How do you do it?”

His face looks stupid. He’s stupid. ”Uh…”

I stand up so suddenly he jumps in his seat. “Lets go to the roof.”



One day, someone’s going to fall off these stairs. Hell, maybe an elephant will visit and he’ll fall through them. The metal’s thin enough. Though I guess elephants wouldn’t be looking to stand on rooftops in the first place. Unless they were going to jump off. Damn. That’d be a hell of a suicide. Would the drop from our apartment even kill one?

“Friends.”

I look back at my companion: a walking stick of cotton candy without food coloring. His hooves on the stairs make this annoying clunking sound. A little piece of me dies inside every time it happens, but I can’t ask him to stop. He’ll only do it more. “What are you on about?”

“Your question.” he answers. “I know nothing about what you described, mind you, but I imagine having friends around would help. Support network and all that.”

“Wow.” My voice takes an impressed tone. “That is the gayest answer I could ever hope for. Is that why you haven’t bagged Anneke yet, predo? Maybe Wolt’s a better match for you. It’s too bad he isn’t into that. You gays would be real cute together.”

We’re at the top of the roof, now. A theory’s been forming in my mind ever since we reached the mid point. Whispers of guitar strings and notes of laughter. I open the door and confirm it. This is where everybody’s been the whole day. Not sleeping, or out. They’ve been here and I’m confused, because somehow I missed it.

Remmy’s in the middle of a retort that I haven’t been listening to. He shuts up as soon as he sees.

Ozzy’s leaning against a wall with his guitar, singing softly and playing softly. Not the star of the show but still heard by everyone else. Marty and Charlie are on either side of him. The twins are off to the corner. Wolter’s taking a nap and Annie’s propped up against him, idly scrolling her phone. Al’s sleeping by the edge.

Upon seeing me and Remmy, Ozzy interrupts his own song. “Hey guys! You finally done hanging out without us?”

“They better be.” Anneke pipes in. “Not fair of Avo to have all that meat to herself.”

“How did you…”  the only sheep in miles trails off.

“You were yelling in Wooly’s bathroom.” Ozzy snickers. “How did those grilled cheeses turn out, anyway?”

“Burned.” Charlie says matter of factly. I don’t remember what happened with them, but if she says that they burned then there’s not much I can say in argument.

I walk to the other end, parallel to Al, and sit down. Pack Street looks pretty fucking great from up here. Especially when I’m drunk.

I let my thoughts wander as everyone exchanges banter and laughs. Eventually, Ozzy gets back to singing and everybody stops talking to hear. His music gives off a nice vibe. It’s the kind of music you want to be happy while listening to.

Remmy ends up sitting beside me, and we both stare off into the distance. “Better than that trash we were watching earlier, huh?”

I chuckle. “Damn straight.”

Silence falls over us. Well, not complete silence. Ozzy’s indie movie soundtrack is still playing.

“You know,” I add. “You do have friends here. The twins like you. Charlie probably has a shrine locked away with your wool as the centrepiece.”

He looks like he’d rather not believe it, but as usual I speak the truth. “I could say something similar for you.” A moment passes. “Hey, you okay? You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

I nod my head, turning away from him so he doesn’t see my eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Unlike earlier, I actually believe myself.



(For Thematic Thursday: Drunk)