Patrice

I hooked up with Patrice a week ago Sunday night, completely by accident. Before I go any further, let me say this: Patrice is a sneak and a liar, and anything you hear from her is complete bullshit. If Patrice tells you that gas makes a car go, question it; check her sources. I feel about Patrice the same way I feel about Access Hollywood: she can be good for a laugh, but she has no ethics and will do anything to get ratings. Ugh. My mom loves that retarded show. She Tivos it and I think she has a glass of wine in the afternoon while she watches. She gets all dolled up in her high-waist jeans and clogs and snorts her disapproval over a bunch of everyday nonsense that may or may not be true, and is none of her goddamned business to begin with. What a waste of a life. Me going to jail tomorrow and earning my GED behind freaking bars is a better use of time. I HATE it.

And what did I go and do? The same damn thing as my mom. Drank some booze and ended up getting my kicks off of some lame sensationalistic bitch.

Sugarbear had an awesome party set up for that Sunday afternoon. His parents rock this mansion (at least, it’s a mansion to me) about a half mile away from my parent’s dump, and it is totally set up to fucking kill bugs dead. Hot tub, pool out back, sunken living room with the whole crazy home theater set-up and a freaking DVD jukebox that holds like two-hundred movies, for the love of Christ. And they have the SECOND living room where old people go and sit when they come over, with nothing but furniture, end tables, and flowers in it, I guess because the seniors don’t like all those shocking loud noises scaring them out of their shit-filled diapers. What a mess. Old people torque me off. What’s it gonna kill you to come and hear the younger set talk? Afraid you might learn something new right before you die? I guess I’d be pissed too, though, finding out about all the cool new things the world had to offer a fucking week before biting it.

The house has a kick-ass make-out pit in the basement, with black lights and a music dock and suede throw pillows EVERYWHERE, and there’s no windows so it is dark ALL THE TIME, even in the middle of day. During party mode, no one is allowed in the basement alone. Sugarbear assigns a pal (personal ass licker) to basically be a bouncer at the basement door, with a kind of gate made of the velvet ropes and poles that Sugarbear and another buddy of his named Johnson (also on the golf team) ripped-off from the local movie theatre. It makes the whole scene totally authentic. I love it. Usually I spend like an hour down there with Camile, but she obviously OPTED OUT of attending Sugar’s party with me, seeing as she read all about me smashing her monkey-dad’s windshield in on this site last week. THAT’S RIGHT. She found it. Needless to say, she and I are not dating at the moment. HA HA. Fuck her and her dumb-ass fish lips. I’ve had just about enough of her and her sweet little sprinkle of pimples. Die, Camile. I know you’re reading this, you strumpet. DIE. I smashed your dad’s window because he is a DICK and I HATE HIM, and I hate YOU, because you are obviously JUST LIKE HIM. You ACT like him, and guess what, you fucking prima donna hose-bag—you LOOK like him, too, you goddamned APEGIRL. You think you are so smart, calling the cops, and telling them about my blog…well, joke’s on YOU, Bitchy McSlutkins, because they ALREADY KNEW ABOUT IT, so HA HA HA. Hey, take this on, Camile: you think I’m so bad for smashing in a windshield, hmmmmm?? How about the fact that your oh-so-demure mommy is gonna be in way over her head in a pot of scalding hot water for not filing taxes on her little house-cleaning business? I heard my straight-laced parental units talking about it like three months ago. She’s fucking BUSTED, and there is NO WAY AROUND IT, and there’s a very good chance she’s gonna do HARD TIME FOR IT. Me, all I’m gonna have to do is some freaking lawn maintenance in the city park, so who’s worse? Her, or me? Or hey, maybe even YOU? The product of an ape and a thief, and the ex-girlfriend of a loser vandal, that’s what you are. And a fucking SNITCH.

CAMILE GLADSTONE IS A DIRTY RAT SNITCH.

Spread the word.

What was I talking about? Ah yes. The liar Patrice. What a prize. What was I thinking? So, she finds me at Sugarbear’s party, and she starts talking to me about how Camile is such a loser for snitching me out, that she read all my shit, and she thinks it’s sooo sexy that I have a blog (WHAT?!? Please). It’s all bullshit, and Patrice has just about the biggest feet I’ve ever seen on a girl, and her hair is like such an afro that I swear she’s got birds in it, but by this time I was on my third or fourth beer, so when she turned to get a cold one and rubbed her ass on my johnson again, it was pretty much over. She came back and said she wanted to see the basement but had no one to go down with, and I was like, you do NOW.

Benji was watching the rope at the time, and when he saw me going down with Patrice his fucking eyes fell out of his head. I mean, it’s no surprise that Patrice the Terrible would eat up a friend’s ex for breakfast—I mean hell, her whole reputation is built off of what she did to Tammy Reddick two years ago—but I think Benji was shocked because we spend so much time ragging on Patrice in the cafeteria lobby about her hair and her cross-eyes (when she takes off her glasses her eyes cross, so weird). Whatever. I’m what you might call an ASS MAN, and in my drunken state, Patrice had it in spades.

So we go downstairs, and she pulls me around by my belt (for all her failings she ain’t shy, bubba) to an empty spot as we stepped carefully over all the writhing bodies in the dim black light. It’s funny, now that I think about it. I wasn’t at all skeeved by being around a bunch of people getting to third base together in the same dark room at the time, but now I suddenly feel like I need to take antibiotics. Well, we find a spot, and she immediately is all over me and kissing me like a fucking back-HO, like this is a freaking construction project for her, like she is excavating something out of my face. And her breath is slimy and gross, all stale and smoky cause she smokes cigarettes (which I happen to not give a flying fuck about but her breath was SO bad), and suddenly I’m like, what the hell am I DOING? And she’s all like whispering, “I’m going to ROCK you, slugger.” And I’m thinking SLUGGER? Who the fuck says SLUGGER? But I don’t know how to get out of the situation, it’s like she has me where she wants me, and I can’t get free…she’s too confident, too strident, and I KNOW she has a HUGE fucking mouth and god knows what she’s gonna tell people if I jet on her.

It was at that moment that my ass started vibrating. I jumped up about ten feet in the air, totally startled, landing on some dude’s ankle, and he was like, “What the fuck?” And I was like, “My ass, my ass, something’s in my ass!” And everyone stops what their doing, pulling tongues out of respective orifices, and is just gaping at me as I dance around the basement. I THINK I danced around the basement, anyway. That’s how I recall it. So embarrassing. So, you know, of course I eventually remembered I had my cell phone in my back pocket, fucking DUH, and I pull it out and it’s a text from Sugarbear saying dude what the FUCK are you DOING down there with that BIRD’S NEST?

That broke the spell. Yes, I thought, what the fuck AM I doing with her? By this time she’s walked over to me, looking all around to see who’s looking at us, and she’s like, “Hey, what the hell, Pendel? Are you gonna come back and get busy?” And I’m just horrified with myself, because her glasses are off, and it doesn’t even look like she’s looking at me, she’s looking at her own freaking NOSE for CHRIST’S SAKE, and I’m just like, hey, sorry, I can’t…I gotta go…

I don’t even know if she said anything to me after that. I ran upstairs and was through the door in an instant, squinting in the light, and like, Sugarbear and Benji are practically on the floor laughing at me.

So what. It happens to the best of us, right? Well, you must remember that Patrice is a lying swamp monster skank. I go to school on Monday to find out she told everybody I spewed everywhere as soon as she touched me, and squealed like a 13 year old, and that’s why I ran out on her. HATE HER AND WANT HER DEAD.

On top of this, now with my guilty vandal status and community horseshit, my parents have RAMMED weekends with Mr. Hanson down my throat. We start Saturday, but I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to kill myself before that. BUT! I start golf tomorrow, and maybe within a couple of days, I’ll get to try acid again, so I guess I will go on living just to see how THAT plays out.

I am only 17, yet life already seems so endless.

6 thoughts on “Patrice”

  1. i havent heard “strumpet” for years, such a great word. Patrice sounds prety horific… cigarette breath for the lose.

  2. Dude just for your own protection from the cops, your freedom of speech covers anything you write, and nothing on this blog can be used as an admission of guilt. You could be simply making up stories that just coincidentally reflect some events that happened in your community recently.

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