Post by SOREN SOMERSETT on Aug 27, 2011 12:23:59 GMT -5
Soren was not a happy camper at the moment.
For starters, his fucking alarm clock was broken, and the little prick had decided to wake him up at 4:30 in the afternoon, instead of 9 AM like he’d set it for. Once he’d gotten up, changed, and grabbed a burger and a coffee at Mickey D’s, he’d already missed every single one of his classes for the day, except for Composition, which he totally wasn’t going to anyway, because that teacher was a damn prick who probably liked FC Barcelona, because that’s how much of a dipshit he was.
Then his fucking laptop had died right in the middle of his Women in Lit homework, and the fucking dickturds at the Apple Store had said he’d have to wait until Monday to get it back, so he’d had to rewrite the entire essay on his phone, and his name was Soren, not Soreness, so fuck you, autocorrect.
And then there was the game. That fucking game. That game that they’d lost 8-1 against Princeton. Soren had scored their only goal in the last ten seconds on a breakaway, when he was finally fed up with passing to all these pussies he was playing with and just dribbled right through seven defenders. No, it had all been Matt’s fault. Matt had broken his fucking ankle and had to sit out for a game, so their stupid Coach had put Soren, normally center mid, on forward and had Tyler, who was normally a defender, play center mid. And of course, Tyler was a little dipshit and fucked everything up. Seriously. A fucking two-year-old could have dribbled the ball past that kid.
Fuck Tyler. Fuck Matt. And fuck Princeton. Yeah. Fuck them.
The guys had decided to go out afterwards anyway, getting wasted and high off their asses. Soren had brought apple juice in anticipation, pouring it into his glass in the men’s room and partying it up. He’d insisted on driving their rented SUV back, knowing that he was presumably the only remotely sober one on the team. He now sat stiffly in the front seat, shoving on the accelerator with his right foot while kicking a soccer ball around with his left, with about twelve guys squeezed into three seats in the back. He pretended to scream and ramble intoxicatedly, while secretly wishing these dipshits would shut the fuck up so he could concentrate on the road.
“Yeah! Party hard!” he screamed in a fake drunken stupor, beating his fist against the ceiling and holding back a grimace, because that actually fucking hurt. He turned into a side alley, trying to remember where Oliver’s apartment was, and knowing that asking him won’t help. That was when the chanting began.
“Pull over! Pull over! Pull over! Pull over!”
Was that…was that a girl on the side of the road?
No way. Soren had picked up plenty of girls off the side of the road in his time, and he was totally not in the mood right now.
“No way bro!” But the screams were overwhelming.
“C’mon bro, what’s your problem?” “Thought you were into hot girls, man!” “Christ, dude, live a little!”
Fuck it. He pulled over. “Get in,” he said, rolling down the window.
For starters, his fucking alarm clock was broken, and the little prick had decided to wake him up at 4:30 in the afternoon, instead of 9 AM like he’d set it for. Once he’d gotten up, changed, and grabbed a burger and a coffee at Mickey D’s, he’d already missed every single one of his classes for the day, except for Composition, which he totally wasn’t going to anyway, because that teacher was a damn prick who probably liked FC Barcelona, because that’s how much of a dipshit he was.
Then his fucking laptop had died right in the middle of his Women in Lit homework, and the fucking dickturds at the Apple Store had said he’d have to wait until Monday to get it back, so he’d had to rewrite the entire essay on his phone, and his name was Soren, not Soreness, so fuck you, autocorrect.
And then there was the game. That fucking game. That game that they’d lost 8-1 against Princeton. Soren had scored their only goal in the last ten seconds on a breakaway, when he was finally fed up with passing to all these pussies he was playing with and just dribbled right through seven defenders. No, it had all been Matt’s fault. Matt had broken his fucking ankle and had to sit out for a game, so their stupid Coach had put Soren, normally center mid, on forward and had Tyler, who was normally a defender, play center mid. And of course, Tyler was a little dipshit and fucked everything up. Seriously. A fucking two-year-old could have dribbled the ball past that kid.
Fuck Tyler. Fuck Matt. And fuck Princeton. Yeah. Fuck them.
The guys had decided to go out afterwards anyway, getting wasted and high off their asses. Soren had brought apple juice in anticipation, pouring it into his glass in the men’s room and partying it up. He’d insisted on driving their rented SUV back, knowing that he was presumably the only remotely sober one on the team. He now sat stiffly in the front seat, shoving on the accelerator with his right foot while kicking a soccer ball around with his left, with about twelve guys squeezed into three seats in the back. He pretended to scream and ramble intoxicatedly, while secretly wishing these dipshits would shut the fuck up so he could concentrate on the road.
“Yeah! Party hard!” he screamed in a fake drunken stupor, beating his fist against the ceiling and holding back a grimace, because that actually fucking hurt. He turned into a side alley, trying to remember where Oliver’s apartment was, and knowing that asking him won’t help. That was when the chanting began.
“Pull over! Pull over! Pull over! Pull over!”
Was that…was that a girl on the side of the road?
No way. Soren had picked up plenty of girls off the side of the road in his time, and he was totally not in the mood right now.
“No way bro!” But the screams were overwhelming.
“C’mon bro, what’s your problem?” “Thought you were into hot girls, man!” “Christ, dude, live a little!”
Fuck it. He pulled over. “Get in,” he said, rolling down the window.
