***Back by popular demand!! I’m thrilled at the outcome of this story!! So many people like it. I’m too happy, over elated. Ecstatic. Pee-in-my-pants happy. But I really wouldn’t do—I—you—know that---I ruined it didn’t I. Anyway here’s sa’more!! Hope you like it. Same warnings apply! I thought I’d bring some realness in this chapter because so far you’ve seen the very vapid-ish Lizzy. Hope it’s good. I know you’ll tell me if it’s not! Enjoy!!***

I rolled my eyes as I slowly maneuvered so that my torso could curve toward my legs. I was having difficulty talking on my cellie and painting my toe-nails at the same time while lying on my back on the floor. I’m like getting a workout here: mini crunches.

Like I need them.

You heard me: talking on my cell phone. Yay. The bill has been paid for: curtsey of little Mikey (You remember him right? My anal retentive little bro who’s my sole advisor because daddy’s become Satan?) Big-ups for Mikey.

Why am I lying on the ground painting my toe-nails on a Wednesday afternoon? Because I’m bored. Is that enough of an explanation for you? And I can’t afford to go get a peddie or a mannie. (If there are actually people who don’t know what those are: Pedicure or manicure. Seriously, if you’re one of those people, we so can’t hang out. If fact, just stop reading now and go away.)

And yes. That is the first time in my life I’ve used “can’t” and “afford” in the same sentence when referring to myself and money. Usually I say it when referring to someone else and social statues like: You “can’t afford” to date/be seen: with me. (Yes, I’ve actually said that to people.)

My ears drums began to numb, as they usually did, after being lectured by Michael for so long. Did I mention I was painting my toe nails (a very seductively brilliant dark burgundy color) and talking to Michael on my newly paid for cell phone? One of the draw backs to having him pay for my cell bill is now when he calls I have to actually answer instead of sending him straight to voice-mail. (You swear like I’m evil. All the boy does is call to nag my head off. It’s like he’s got nothing better to do than to bitch at me to hell and back. Doesn’t he have homework to do or orgies to attend? He is in high school after all.)

What’s the latest entry in the “Let’s nag Lizzy list?”

1. I went to dinner w/ the girls—

You saw or heard me or read me or—whatever—you know: don’t deny it. I so didn’t order anything. I received free dinner, compliments of Mr. Eye Candy. (Yes, I’ve named the waiter. It was either Eye Candy or Ass I’d like to bite.)

Flash back to yummy waiter….

Mmmmm…

2. I spend my money like I still have it.

That’s a given. Old habits die hard…

Yes, that’s it. No catchy smart-ass remark involving the words “habits,” and/or “hard.” You thought I would huh. You’re so damned predictable.

3. And I haven’t found a job yet.

Yup. Still got no jobby-job. Well there’s a perfectly viable explanation for that. Simply stated: I haven’t been looking; my reasons for not looking for a job are as follows:

1. I don’t want to.

2. I really don’t want to

3. I so really don’t want to

Which you see, all three reasons are excusable. For me at least. I’m pretty after all. And everyone knows that pretty people rock the house. What does that have to do with anything? If you have to ask then you’re obviously a bow-wow.

As Michael continued to drone on I noticed a jingle in the door. Keys. Which meant one if not all are my roommates are home. The thought of having this lack-luster afternoon made even more lusterless by the premature appearance of one or all three people I’m forced to coexist with within these wretched walls--to which I’ve dubbed “new hell.”--just makes me feel homicidal-lish. Did I mention I don’t actually like my roommates?

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have no voice to choose where I live (right now). That I have to make due here with…..them. But I’ve picked up a new phrase whilst living under this rotting excuse for a two-bedroom apartment.

Oh God no.

Yes, those are the three words that have been echoing in my mind and occasionally finding their way out of my sneering mouth. Every time I enter the god-forsaken bathroom and see their beach apparel dripping onto the mildew kissed tiled floor. Every time they bring bitches here who are louder than ghetto hood-rats and make out all over the damned place. And every time they try to touch me or talk to me: period. Yes boys and girls: oh god no, words to live by, or occasionally, when I’m feeling colorful: the sporadic and more urban:

Aw’hewll’naw.

Lately, more than ever, I find myself hating everybody for no reason.

You may say—Lizzy-- that’s how you are already. And to that I’ll say--fuck off ass clown-- who gave you permission to talk to me?

Hating everybody for no reason; I’m not choosy people I seriously mean everybody. I hate the mail-man for doing his job, the girl who walks her dog passed the apartment everyday for being polite and picking the poop off the front mat, that actor in the Wendy’s commercials, Democrats, Matt LaBlanc for assuming that a show called Joey would be entertaining without Ross, Rachel, Monica, Chandler and Phoebe….. and Michael. Yes, especially him. I think I hate him most of all. Why? For making me live with these three teenage boys, duh. (I know, I know; I said I came to terms but I LIED. I was trying to sound grown up. Please. Me coming to terms. You’d sooner find me shopping at Wal-Mart then coming to terms with being poor and choicelss.)

He’s making me live here. That’s right Michael is. Not my indecision to choose or take responsibility for my own laziness. It’s Michael my littler brother’s fault. That’s right. You heard me.

The roomies. They’re of the cute surfer-type “variety,” (I’ll give them that much) their cuteness almost equaling the guys you’d find in a No Fear or Abercrombie & Fitch clothing catalogue, but they are so far away from the guys I’m used to dealing with.

The guys I’m used to dealing with, I dunno, have a tendency to use the occasional bar of SOAP and the occasional stick of DEODORANT. Oh yeah, and they tend to cover oneself in CLEAN (and ironed or at least wrinkled on purpose for trend sake) clothes.

“Cute” alone isn’t enough by many girls’ standards. Okay class; notice how I used the word “many” instead of “all.” The breeds known as the bow-wows and butterfaces’ only have two requirements: alive and warm.

Sometimes not even two….

You pick which requirement to delete-either way—ew.

You’ve heard of the strain of girls that guys refer to as “yeah she’s hot, but-her-face.” If you’ve not heard the term before then chances are that it’s said about you, most likely behind your back in large crowds of your peers. Your friends and/or family were nice enough to shield your ears and knowledge of the truth to your “butterface” classification. Give them cookies.

Not only are “my” roommates dirty and poor but they’re also perverted- horny ass males. Yes I know all guys are perverted and horny but not to the extent to where theirdirty girly mags are scattered about the living area--in front of company--possibly sticky….. while having a girl roomette whose not their overly understanding mother (you know the type) and/or kinky girlfriend. (Note to future perverts-in training: don’t have your “Jugs” and “Creamsicle” periodicals out in plain view. You keep that shit under your mattress like normal people).

But it was either here or the street. They based me getting the “room” solely on my fuck’er’factor. (Being hot comes in handy.) But if any of them so much as touches the air around me--yes you can touch air; the air around pretty people is touchable-- I will so go Uma on their asses. (Kill Bill, that’s all I’m saying.)

By now Michael is no more than a buzz on the other end of the receiver. I’m too busy watching the door get kicked open by who ever was trying to get in. Let’s see who it is…

Ah. Him. Of course.

“Hi Lizzy.” Nathan chirped as he entered, hands full of random crap that I don’t care enough about to describe.

“Don’t call me Lizzy. Only friends and family call me that.”

“I am family,” Michael said in a confused tone.

“I’m not talking to you,” I sighed into my (PHONE! MY PHONE! YAY). “People are here now,” I added in a lower-disgusted tone.

Nathan only glanced at me and smiled as he brushed his long, dirty blonde surfer-dude hair away from his natural baked (as opposed to Marlo’s fake baked) cheek.

“Then what am I suppose to call you?” He asked; his tone totally friendly and kind-hearted.

I was zeroing in on the frayed corner of his black-faded polo shirt.

Call me Alicia: the name on the rental agreement which you apparently didn’t read.” I replied as nicely as humanly possible. (Yes, that’s all that’s humanly possible).

He set his crap down and plopped down beside me on the carpet, dangerously close to my air. His eyes wondered down my legs to examine my toes.

“Nice color,” he commented on the nail polish.

“Whatever,” I dryly replied.

He was just using the opportunity to get a long glance at my legs; why do I have to acknowledge him pretending like he cares about my toes. He has porn magazines strewn about as if they were scented candles; like he gives a damn about my color and cuticles.

He turned to lean over me, as I had positioned myself back on the ground, cell phone tucked between my shoulder and neck with my other hand outstretched. I was deciding whether to paint my fingernails while my toes might possibly still be moist. Nothing is worse than a fucked up coat of polish. You girls out there who don’t think that chipped finish on your pinkie toe hidden beneath that Payless summer clearance sandal isn't noticeable-- think again.

I could smell the scent of the day’s activity on his clothes: sweat, sea water and sea weed. All of which are very unattractive unless attached to Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom….or that waiter…..

Flash back to yummy waiter.

Mmmm.

I scooted away from his body only to be stopped by his arm positioned on the other side of me.

“Do you mind. You smell like poor.” I muttered as I scowled at his forearm. I then noticed how muscle-y he was. Very lean and if he wasn’t the image of poor perverted-ness I’d probably find him pretty. Like me.

“I smell like the beach. I surf remember. Most girls would find that attractive.”

“Most girls are bow-wows and butterfaces.” (Remember class? You better. Pop quiz next week.)

“Those girls will fuck whatever moves, kind of like you.” I added as I braved touching his arm to push him away. Ew.

For some reason, his arm had become stern, unlike five minutes ago. I began to feel uneasy. Something was wrong with this situation.

I calmed myself and relaxed back onto the floor, thinking that if I complied to not being obviously disgusted with him hovering over me then he’d go away.

That so didn’t happen.

He had that look in his hazel eyes. That look guys get when Christina Aguilera’s “Dirty” video comes on and they’re seeing it for the first, second or-- who’em I kidding-- whenever they see a hot girl in chaps. That look.

“Nathan. Get off.”

He smiled again. This time not as friendly as he floated above me, threatening to move in. The smell of the sea became more and more concentrated and repugnant.

“LIZZY!”

The voice was so loud you’d think he was actually there.

I’d forgotten the cell phone was still on.

“I’m here Michael! Call the police!” I replied just below a yell, not breaking eye-contact with Nathan who was now growing increasingly uneasy.

“NO don’t!” He interposed as he quickly took hold of my cell phone which I now have to disinfect.

“She’s kidding bro.” He chuckled nervously,

Bro?

“We were just messin’ around.”

Who said he could make physical contact with my ear piece?

I yanked the phone out of his hand and swiftly stood.

“Hold on!” I yelled into the phone as I held it at arms length.

I used the corner of my Radio-Head T-shirt (I want to take this moment to apologize to the band) and rubbed the phone as best I could, all the time scowling at Nathan. It took a good five minutes before I was satisfied. So gross. Fuck it, I need a new phone.

“Okay I’m back.”

“WHICH ONE IS NATHAN!!??”

I had to hold the phone away from my ear again.

“Calm yourself.” I replied after he was done yelling.

“He’s the one who said you had “bitchin” wheels.”

So lame right.

I leaned lazily to one side.

“Yeah, he’s about five-nine/five ten, shoulder length blond hair, tanned. Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah.”

I paused to address Nathan, who was still standing in front of me.

“What’s your license plate and social-security number.”

Nathan took that as his (very late) cue to exit, raising his hands in surrender as he left the apartment. I waited until the front door closed behind his sorry ass before bringing the phone back to my ear.

“He’s gone.”

“Are you okay?” Michael asked; his tone riddled with concern.

“What are you talking about? I had him in check.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. So sure. Listen, I gotta go. I have a job interview in like, five minutes.”

“Five minutes.”

“Yes!”

“Lizzy, unless the interview is across the street then you’re not going to make it.”

“Whatever, I gotta go now. Bye.” And with that I hung up and turned my phone off. Damn little bastard, won’t even let me lie without correcting my story.

I took a breath as I headed to the room that I share with-NO ONE. All three boys share one room and I get the other to myself. I get my way—most of the time. I closed the door and turned the lock. My heart was beating very hard and loud. It was dancing in such a way only Red Bull and Vodka or possibly make-up sex ever caused. So usually it was a good feeling but now….it…FUCK! Why am I so freaked?! Where was my Uma? Usually I know how to handle myself. That so wasn’t how I do things. This so isn’t me.

But then again, this whole thing so isn’t me.