Special mention goes out to Tina Ball here for highlighting the website 'FML' to me. Her blog's down the side there, called Watch This Space. That'll tell you all about FML. I was going to write this on that website but I reckon I can spin it out for a while on here for you. Set the scene, establish some characters, you know the crack. So here it goes.
University. First year. Wild parties are a normality, but so are boring nights. This was one of those nights, which was impregnated by a wild party, and it left its drunken mistake in my bed. Right in the middle of my fucking bed. So I'm sitting in my room, on Facebook, probably watching like, Anchorman and essentially chilling. I know what you're thinking. This is one wild party. Thats where you're wrong because this is actually the boring night (unbelievable, I know). So I'm sitting there when BOOM. Facebook chat window pops up:
Michael David Howse:
I'm coming over. We're going out.
The night just got knocked up a notch. I throw on some clothes, it doesn't matter what, everything I own is sexy as hell, and await Mike's arrival. The door buzzer goes. I answer it, and in comes Mike with a girl, who I vaguely remembered from freshers. 'Alright Mat, you remember Michaela yeah?'
I sure don't
'I sure do, how's it going?' She's fine, but already drunk. We have some catching up to do. 'We're going to a flat party Mat, you ready?' I was ready. We went across and I can honestly say I felt as out of place as N Dubz at an awards ceremony. Why was I there? I didn't know anyone, I had no alcohol, and it was up like, 6 flights of stairs. It was already a failure of a night. Luckily there were some surplus beers and everyone was too pissed to notice them getting drunk. Still, a few free beers wasn't enough to keep me there, and I gave Mike a look that said 'Lets leave. Right now'. He looked back at me as if to say 'I can't read people's minds when they look at me, but I reckon you want to leave so I'm going to nod like thats what you suggested'. We blew that joint, but Michaela followed us. She was drunk enough for the entire Coppice (legendary halls of residence and birth place of the 219 crew) and was staggering all over the place. We went back to my flat to chill and watch some t.v, maybe a movie. But she was the kind of drunk where you get really chatty. And really fucking annoying. But eventually sleepy. I got her some water and suggested she drank it, and, while me and Mike watched Terry Tate, office linebacker, she drifted off to sleep. Sweet. She'll stay down, wake up in the morning and leave. I can sleep on the floor for one night, I am, after all, a gentleman.
We got restless in my room after a while, and thought we'd go chill in Mike's for a while. Michaela was down for the count, so we slipped out quietly and went over to Chestnut House. We watched some more Terry Tate, had a cup of tea, listened to some Blessed By A Broken Heart (absolutely brilliant band, like, imagine if Atreyu raped Jon Bon Jovi and they had a bastard love child, they would be that bastard love child), and probably watched some South Park. The sun was coming up, and we knew we weren't going to sleep, and thought that a brisk walk back to Oak House (The superior house of The Coppice) in the bracing wind would awaken our minds and spirits. We got back to my room, and Michaela was still there, fast asleep, and Terry Tate was still on YouTube. A few more episodes wouldn't kill us. But then I noticed something.
The floor at the edge of my bed was wet. And there was an empty glass on my floor.
She's spilled the fucking water in my bed, the idiot! There's nowt worse than wet bed sheets (if you've ever tried to drink water while lying on your back in bed, then you'll understand that this is how you get wet sheets). But hang on Mathew, didn't she finish her water before you went to Mikes?
Why Yes, yes she did, because you put the empty glass on the floor.
I looked at the water, and saw it was dripping from the bed. And saw that the drip was coming from a trail on the mattress. And the trail was coming from under the covers. I lifted them up.
The trail came from a pool underneath Michaela. She'd pissed my bed.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I think I went into shock, probably from the no sleep, but also probably because SHE'D PISSED THE FUCKING BED!
I couldn't even look at her, huddled up in her own filth. She started to come around. What was I going to say? 'Oh morning pissy pants, fancy cleaning my sheets?'. I stared at Terry Tate tackling a worthless peon in an office block. I heard Mike begin to speak. 'Erm, Michaela, I think you should apologise to Mat', 'Why' she said. 'Just look down, then apologise to him'.
She knew what she'd done. She grabbed her bag and said 'I just live down the road, if you want you can come round while I wash these for you'.
Too bloody right thats what we're going to do. We marched her there, and she was still wearing the dress and tights (so I'm assuming the underwear?) she'd pissed in. Before that night i thought she was alright looking. Image shattered. We got to hers and she washed the sheets, but They were never the same again. I always just thought, whenever I had those sheets on my bed, 'A girl pissed all over these'. And whats worse, she was cuddling a pillow while she slept, so that was gone forever.
Fuck My Life.
On the plus side we watched Teen Wolf while my sheets got cleaned.
Hope that wasn't too real for you guys