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[stormy-heather]

YEAH IM FUCKING DONE WITH FINALS 

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Hang Overs Suck. Bad.

So I am terribly hung over.

Like, Disgustingly so. All because I got the job I applied for. I'm nervous as hell, it's working for the Georgia democrats.

But cross your fingers!

Also, I realized that their are an amazing amount of holes in my lessons. Like why I ended up dating Mark for so long or how I went from Adam back to Mark or why I even met Lynn. This summer will be lots of filling in.

Cuz I have one more final (Monday) and then I have to do the stupid graduation ceremony thing and THEN I have my first day of work.

No bueno.

Adios, mi amigos!

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

No matter how drunk you get, make sure you can make it to a toilet.

December 2009

Right now the whole world is blurry and my stomach is definitely floating somewhere over the Tropic of Cancer. I've put back at least a 6 pack and a half to myself of Budlight Lime. 

I am laying on the floor. Somehow I ended up at Chery's apartment with a bunch of upper class men. Everytime I've been to Chery's apartment something worth gossiping about for the next two weeks always happens. That's cool. What sucks is that it always involves me looking less than awesome.

"Here, Layla, Drink this!" A balding frat guy says to me. Mark laughs at whatever the guy is handing me, but I take it.

I hold it up to my face. Through my bleary eyes I can kinda read the label. It's just another budlight lime. 

"You should chug it." Prematurely aging says to me.

Why not? 

 I tip it back and take a few swallows.

What the hell? 

The taste is bitter and burns my mouth and tongue. I feel it in my chest and already spinning down fast into my inner workings.

Fuck. He gave me vodka. 

I remember the old adage, "Beer before liquor never been sicker." 

I know I am going to be very, very ill soon. I spit out whats in my mouth causing many eyes to roll and a few people to laugh at me. Mark yells out, "Party Foul!"

I sit up and try to clear my head and stay quiet.

Chery brings me a cup of water.

"Here, Layla, you need to drink that." 

I shake my head. 

Fuck you. 

I knock it from her hand. 

Chery gets mad. 

She bends down and picks me up. 

"Come on, you need to lay down."  Go away. Let me drink in peace.  

But she's way bigger than me and lifts me by my wrist. Everything looks as though saran wrap has been pressed over my eyeballs, but I can still see everyone laughing at me as Chery steers me into her room. When she lets my wrist go, I land on the floor and stay there.

She sits something down next to me.

"Here, eat this." Its a bowl of popcorn.

I shake my head.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Chery asks. "I am trying to help you."

"Danny Brister is whats wrong with me." I mumble. I can already feel the tears in my eyes. I sit up sharply. "He broke up with me." I say louder.  " HE BROKE UP WITH ME!" I scream. In the doorway I can see a small mob of upperclassmen watching the screaming freshman.

Watch the show, assholes.

Chery touches my forehead. "We all get dumped, sweetie." 

"I've never been dumped before. Is something wrong with me?" I ask.

"No, honey. Nothing. Here, lay down and drink this." Chery says.

"I'll check on you in a bit."

As soon as she leaves, I start feeling my mouth fill up with saliva. I don't feel so good. I try to sit up but my arms have quit working.

All the sudden the rush of puke comes out of my mouth and onto Chery's floor. I feel better and I close my eyes and sleep.

"She puked! She fucking puked!" Chery is yelling now.

I sit up, my head burning. There is puke all over me and definitely stuck in my teeth.

A mob of people rush in, all talking and exclaiming.

Shut up! My head hurts! 

I hold my head but someone has got me. Mark is carrying me.

"Come on, Layla. We're going to get you to the car." I can feel people below my feet cleaning up the huge mess I've made. 

Somehow someone gets me to the car and back to my dorm, but I am unsure how.

I wake up a few hours later, hungover and nasty.

Shit. It's finals day.  

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Who Am I?

My mom was eighteen when she got knocked up. The precious baby bump she had under her sweater attached to her small frame was yours truly-Layla. My parents were not married and some days I wish they would never have visited the court house to sign that piece of paper that attached me to my father for the rest of my life. 

My mom named me Layla, which means dark beauty, which I suppose I am.My skin is as white as they come (thanks to my mother's full blooded Irish heritage) but my hair is long and dark and curly. It comes down to my waist. As for the beauty part, I know that to the world I am attractive. I've got the thin body and the nice hips. My eyes are wide and grey. My nose may be a little too big (thanks a lot, Jewish ancestors), but my overdeveloped lips keeps people from noticing.

But the reason you should never change your last name goes beyond the annoyance your progeny will have in trying to figure out their lineage. Gitan means gypsy wanderer in French. There is absolutely no French blood in my body. I am pure Irish Pollack mix and happy about it. But because my great grandfather unknowingly hijacked the name, French gypsies have attached themselves to our bloodline. Though the gypsy gene waited a while before manifesting, it became wickedly active in me.

I am a wanderer, a bohemian, an outcast in every way shape and form. It's in my blood, from my Irish ancestors who were Protestant when it was cool to be Catholic to my Polish forefathers who went from being Jewish (extreme discrimination) to Catholic (semi discrimination). It's in my name. So I suppose this is destiny. 

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Just because you snort it with a one hundred dollar bill does not make you classy.

April 2010.  I have just returned from surgery. It's been a long road marked with arrogant asshole surgeons and doctors I cannot stand so I don't really want to dwell on it much. I'm lazing on the couch at the Kappa Sig house. Mark, my boyfriend, is working at Walmart and I am waiting for him. 

"How are you feeling?" Frenchie asks as he sits across from me. He's a Kappa Sig. I'd rather he'd be fucking me and not Holly, his art chick girlfriend, but whatever.

"I'm okay," I say. I don't really enjoy being babied, even if it is by an incredibly sexy writer and master of sarcasm twenty year old from New Orleans. I kind of like Holly, even if she never noticed me until Mark and I began shacking up, and I figure I need all the allies I could get considering last fall.

I am working on getting past Mark's sheer size and trying to see a human. It's not easy.

I lean up and grab my cigarettes. Holly watches me. "You really shouldn't be smoking," she says.

fuck you.

I shrug. About a thousand sarcastic things flow through me head. But for the sake of politics, I say nothing. I am making my way in this college one way or another, and at the moment I've found a way to navigate the social ladders. 

I lay back and close my eyes. There is a pain from the nasty gash in my neck where they took it out. This is still something I am not considering even beginning to think about.

Holly is watching me. "Are you certain you're okay?" she asks. 

"I just can't get through this pain." I respond. "The doctor gave me percocet. I took it an hour ago but its just not doing a damn thing." I have an unnaturally high tolerance for pain killers.

"Have you thought about snorting it?" Holly asks. 

I laugh. "Fuck that."

Snort drugs? That's fuckin nasty.

"No, really. It'll hit you a lot harder." Frenchie asks. He would know. He's already tried to buy my pain meds off me.

I'm a little curious. If nothing else, the pain is really, really bad. 

What the hell.

I sit up. "How do we do this?" 

Holly smiles at Frenchie. 

"Do you have a dollar?" She asks him. Frenchie digs through his wallet.

"I have a one hundred." Holly snatches it out of his hand.

"Where's the pain meds?" She asks.

I hand her over a pill and sit up. 

This is really happening. I am about to snort narcotics.

Holly lays the pill on the table and pushes it with a credit card. She uses the palm of her hand and forces it down again and again until there are big chunks in a sea of powder.

"Watch closely." She says. "I won't do it for you every time." She uses the edge of the credit card to sweep the powder up into a nice clean pile. She uses the end of the card again and again and chops up the chunks into nice fine powder. Then she separates the whole mess into four lines. She takes Frenchie's one hundred dollar bill and rolls it tightly into a tube the size of a cigarette.

"Here." She says, handing it to me.

"What do I do?" I ask. 

She shows me how to stick it in a nostril. Push down on the other one. Breathe in. Crack heads are allegedly idiots, but it takes coordination to snort something. 

I lower my hand and suck in the line. The powder is grainy and fine and it burns just a little. I can feel the powder in my throat, draining down. 

Shit. I did it. I can't wait to tell Lynne. 

Within an hour I feel good. The air tastes good, like I'm drinking it. Every sense is heightened but I'm pretty damn relaxed.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

So it begins.

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Don't Be Afraid to fall in love. Otherwise known as: When ****** met ****: Complete Version

~I would like to say thank you to everyone who followed my series. It meant a lot to see the hearts and rebloggs. For the sake of memory, I'm putting the series together in one post. Please enjoy and please don't steal. These are my memories. Feel free to reblog! ~

September 1, 2011. Wednesday. First day of school. 

I’m at my last class of the day and it blows. My professor  does some sort of old man shuffle into the classroom thats far too cold. I’m still working on a terrible hangover that I know it's problem but I figure its everyone else’s fault but mine. Lynn decides there’s no better way to start the semester than with a bottle of wine to each of us and two hydros a piece. So what the hell. I am driven to the college in the early, early morning by a musician I’d been lusting after for weeks. It’s been six hours and he hasn’t texted, so I know that’s a lost cause.

All in all, bad day. 

I sit there with my brain falling out of my ears and my eyes gushing more water than my dehydrated body could lose when this kid walks in. I’d met him before, back when I was a stupid freshman dating a stupid guitarist at the college. But all I remember is that he had a strong inclination to jump out and off of things. He had a motorcycle, too, I think. 

He stares at me for a long time before he sits down across from me next to this girl who hates me. I tell him hello, in a “I’m hungover and feel like shit but society expects me to be cordial” type of way. 

He smiles this huge grin. “Where do I know you from? I look at him. In front of the whole class, I answer, with much class, “I used to fuck Danny Breckler.” I am not good at flirting when I am not drunk.

But he does not sway. He asks my name, which I give and  not-so-secretly turn away from him.  I count the minutes (in my very uncomfortable position from trying to keep him from talking to me) until the Old Man releases us. Damn it, though, he follows me.

“What’s your name again?” He asks. He is running to catch up.

I’m tempted, but I don’t say “Fuck off”. I tell him my name again and light my cigarette.

“What do you do for fun here?” He asks sincerely. “I just moved back from Auburn and its been a long time since I’ve hung out here.” 

I look at him. “I do drugs and have sex.”

He doesn’t even blink. He just smiles like he’s somehow amused.

If only he knew I weren’t kidding. 

“What are you doing now?” He asks. 

I frown up at him from the bench I have collapsed on. My head is murdering me.

 ”I’ve got work in an hour.”

He sits next to me despite the fact that my Camel is getting smoke in his eyes.

“What about after?”

Before I can say anything to this obvious come on, he says, 

“Come on, I’ve got a pool and,

a shit

ton

of mac and cheese,” 

Pretty clever pick up line. 

I smile for the first time that day. Micheal hasn’t quit looking at me. 

“Okay. Text me your address.” I give him my number really quick. I figure even if he doesn’t text at least he made me laugh today.

“K, I’ll text ya. I’m late, I’ve got to go!” He says, standing off the bench. “I’ll text ya!” I wave with my cigarette in my hand. 

I shake my head as he walks away. Mac N Cheese? 

After work, I am smoking a cigarette with Lynn. It’s 85 degrees even though the sun will set soon. It’s hot and I’ve yet to take a nap. I’m incredibly grumpy. 

“Did Aidan ever text you?” Lynn asks. That would be the musician I fucked the night before. 

“Not yet,” I say in a voice that every girl knows means he hasn’t and he won’t. Lesson: If your hook up doesn’t text you the morning after, he won’t unless its for another one night stand. Don’t kid yourself.

Before Lynn can begin to brag about her conquests, the numbers she’s gotten, the ways she was hit on, the way, essentially, that she is the most perfect being at my college, I say, “But Michael and I are hanging out. Do you remember him?” I ask innocently.

                  {I know full well she knows who he is. They both grew up                                   here. He went away to Auburn and on to bigger things and                                 she stayed in bum fuck nowhere. She knows him well and I                                 know she’s always thought he was incredibly good looking.}

She doesn’t say anything yet. She takes a drag on that nasty menthol cigarette and decides what to say. She says his full name slowly. “You mean

Michael ———- ?”

I nod innocently. “I think so. In an hour or so. He moved back from Auburn to go to school here,” I say. I am watching her face, gauging her reaction. 

“You know {fat girl I am not friends with, not because she’s fat but because she’s kind of a bitch and is an obnoxious drunk, hereby after known as “Sara” because I am getting tired of dashes}?” 

“Yes….” “You know she and him were,like, kinda serious?”

“Really?” I doubt this is true. 

“Yeah,” She says, flicking the ash. “Sara was like, in love with him, and I figure that, you know, you’re friends with her and all…” She says, playing very concerned, “that you wouldn’t do anything to hurt her?”

“Well…she’s not really my friend. Besides, we’re just hanging out.” I say. I crush the filter between my fingers.

“k….well, be careful. He’s got a reputation, ya know?” Lynn says. You don’t have one? I think to myself. 

“Anyway, after you’re done hanging out with Micheal can we meet up? Shag [our drug dealer]’s got some oxy we can do to unwind.” She just proved my thought about reputation. She also says oxy because she knows its my favorite and she hates when I go after townies.

“K.” I say. I toss my cigarette and go to trusty Winona, my 2002 Saturn piece of shit. The fact that Lynn hates Michael is all the more reason to go to him. 

Hey. It’s Michael from Problem Solving. I’m on 306 River Club. Do you know where that is? 

I am reading my phone while I drive. Don’t worry—I am well aware it’s illegal. But I almost drop the phone when I read the address.

For those of you who do not live where I live (unless you are a psycho creep who discovered my secret tumbler, that should be most of you who don’t know where I am), River Club is the wealthy part of town. AKA= Michael has money. Lots of it.

I am driving down the road. I’ve been down here before- my kids I watch go to school on the road. But I’ve never been in the houses. We live in the South, the part of it not fucked by General Sherman (if you don’t get the reference, you probably failed US History).  Most of these houses are old, beautiful plantation homes. 

But there is one house on the road that is not like that. It is on top of the hill with this winding driveway. It stands with a curly iron gate that keeps everyone with less then a million dollars far away. Big, brick, pretentious. I’ve personally railed against this house numerous times to Lynn and anyone else who’d listen to me. Mark and I speculated about egging the house just for the sake of defacing something so grand. 

And guess what the house address Michael just sent me was?

I’m pretty sure I can relate to that guy who plays Eric on Boy Meets World. Not when he played Eric but when he played the schmuck on My Date With The President’s Daughter. I am positive I have been stood up when I realize this house, the one I’ve driven past dozens of times and wondered who lived there, was the place Michael sent me to. 

I toss my cigarette I am smoking out the window and drive beyond the Republican Mansion. Fuck it. I’m calling him. I’m not in the mood for playing games. If Micheal did stand me up no doubt that Lynn put him up to it. That’s so like her.

“Hey! What’s up? Are you comin’ over?” He asks brightly. He also answers after five or seven or twelve rings which I really hate. 

“Is this a joke?” I ask. 

“Is what a joke?” He says. 

“You live at 306 River Club?” I ask.

“Yeah, are you comin’?” He asks. By this point I am getting curious and have turned around. I’m pulling into the windy driveway and wishing I could send this image to the past me. 

“I’m in the driveway. If this is your house, come outside.” I say and hang up. At first there’s just the 4 car garage and many a fancy plant. I’m not too terribly interested in ferns.

I can see the pool beyond the garage. And the pool house. And the hot tub. 

I am looking over my windshield and wondering just how much this giant statue of a woman with her boobs poking out costs and why on Earth someone made her when Michael knocks on my window.

Turns out, Micheal does live here.

He’s already shown me the house. Three stories. Weird creepy portraits of him and his sister. No joke, its his home. 

We’re back in the kitchen.

“Where are your parents?” I ask. I am sitting on the island. He’s making me Mac N Cheese. He promised.

“They’re in Italy right now. They have a branch over there.” He says. His back is turned to me which is probably some sort of payback for earlier.

“What do they do?” I ask.

“They own [All details of The Man’s family business have been ommitted. For the record, he did go into the extreme details. Enough to last through Mac N Cheese which he severely fucked up in making]”

I’m in the pool already before he comes out. It’s salt water, which is good. I can’t swim, which is bad. And of course its fancy and deep and has this giant diving board.Fuck rich people.

So I go to the side and light up another cigarette. I’m smoking in the pool when he comes out. 

He’s taken off the baseball hat he had on all day. Of course he has a great body. Of course he has perfect teeth. Of course he’s blonde and blue eyed. These are things that are not my type. But they are very quickly becoming my type.

He does the grand entrance by diving board which I act not to be impressed by. He’s swimming near me. We’ve gone through most of the small talk already. I can tell he’s smart. I can tell he’s a nice guy. I can also tell I am probably only going to be a fuck to him. 

When he’s this near me, though, I don’t really care. He’s hot, so what the hell.

“It’s cold,” He says. It is almost dark. “You should come here and keep me warm.” 

I roll my eyes. Clever lines to ones out of a can. “Five feet rule, buddy.” I say and step away from him. He’s sitting on the pool steps.

“Please?” He asks. 

“What color are my eyes?” I ask, closing them tight. I’ve done this ever since I saw that JLo movie where she does it. It gets guys every time.

He’s got my wrist. I keep my eyes closed but I shove him away. Wise Guy.

“Hey, hey, hey! Five feet rule!” I flirt, pushing his hands away. My heart is pounding and the familiar lightness in my legs return. I love the beginnings of everything, even if its just another one night stand. 

He’s got his arms around me. “They’re blue.” He says.

I laugh and get away. “Nope.” 

“What?!” He says loudly. “They’re gray.”I say. “Let me see.” He says and pulls me closer. Works like a charm. I open my eyes to his face close to mine. He puts his hand on my temple and stares into my eyes. “They are gray.” He says.

Silence. Just like every other guy.

I look away quickly and say nothing. Neither does he. 

I get an idea. “If you remember my last name, I’ll kiss you.”

“What?” he asks, surprised. Its no secret that I’m forward. 

“My last name.” 

He looks up at the sky. “It’s ————”.

Damn. He’s right. That I was not expecting. 

“Yeah…” I say quietly. He looks at me. I kiss his face but not his mouth.

He looks down at me. Before I can say anything sarcastic or bitchy or cynical, before my independent woman can take precedent over my scared heart, before I can pull away

he kisses me.

While he kisses me, I am thinking to myself that this is not like the others. I am thinking to myself that he is not like the others. I am unwinding a string of thought during our first kiss.

I am sick of being a slut. I am tired of sleeping around. I am tired of Lynn and I am tired of her games. I am tired of snorting pills up my nose. I am tired of drinking until I forget. I am tired of the musicians and frat boys. I like this boy, I think. 

He keeps kissing me and I can feel he’s just as stoked as I am. I can also also sense something else. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing, its nothing. I’m just…it’s been a while.” He says. He seems embarrassed. This touches my heart. Most guys are arrogant. At least till you fuck em. Then they start whining to you about how their moms never loved them enough.

But this is different. This is sincerity.

I kiss him. Just for that honesty. He kisses back and I’m whoozy. I am dizzy and lightheaded. The whole world is spinning and for an instant my mind is silent.

We end up in his bed. His big bed where the air conditioner is too cold. We took off our bathing suits with our backs to one another. I hid under the blankets until he joined me. I feel oddly self conscious. This part I am good at. This part I know how to do. I am usually drunk off my ass and I have the advantage, usually, of the dude being fucked up too. But this time we are both sober and acutely aware. 

He’s scared, I feel. He’s nervous. He can’t look at me too long. He’s giggling like a small boy and I am confused by this twenty two year old’s actions. But somehow this person he’s allowing me to see is making me fall in love with him. Already. After a few hours. I know this is different. “Please, Michael,” I whisper. “Please don’t hurt me.” “Baby,” he says already as he kisses my forehead. “Don’t worry.” 

I leave at ten walking on air and still dizzy. He kissed me goodbye. I cry a little on the way home, angry at myself. If I hadn’t fucked him, maybe he would text me. Maybe he would call me. Maybe he would—

Hey. Thank you. I just wanted to make sure this wasn’t a one time thing. Can I take you on a date tomorrow?