Continuation of my shitty shit story. SHIIIIIIIIT. Why can't I stop myself from writing this? WH8T HAPPENED TO ALL MY SELF CONTROL AND ALSO MY WRITING A8ILITY? God dammit…..

You and Alex step tentatively out of the small bathroom, nearly tripping over each other in the process. Jack eyes the douple-ganger suspiciously but says nothing. Alex doesn't seem the least bit unnerved, stepping around your broody brother casually and continuing down the long hallway.

The walls are decorated with dozens of pictures of two children, a young girl with mouse-brown hair, a pudgy little nose and a round face and an only slightly older boy with similar features. As you continue down the hallway, the children get older, as if you were watching a time-lapsed version of their growth into young adults. At the end of the hallway, you reach a point in their lives where you recognize the teens as Alex and Krissa Halloe, the latter being the ho you banged last night. About 10 to 12 years later, Alex still looks about the same, if not a little fatter, and is now the defensive line-backer on your highschool football time. Krissa is now a bottle blonde, and has been since the 9th grade. Her pudgy nose has been corrected and her chest has been inflated to unreasonable proportions. And you got to see her topless. Shame on you, young .

Turning your thoughts away from Krissa's gigantic tits, you continue into the living room of the house, only to find it in a state of complete disarray. There's bodies everywhere, on every piece of solid furnature available and, judging by the broken chunks of wood surrounding one especially large member of your math class, a few not-so-solid pieces as well. Cans and bottles of various sizes take up the remainder of flat surfaces, lining the island in the kitchen and completely filling the stainless-steel trash can that you doubt the Halloes intended to be used by little over 70 teenagers and a handful of collage students who came as well because they refuse to GROW THE FUCK UP. Most of the little nick-nacks and vases that had so nicely decorated the space on your previous visits are now broken to bits and strewn across the once plush and clean white carpet, which is now a dingy mess of footprints of varying sizes and alcohols of various types. Most of the potted plants are tipped over and there is a large and suspicious hole in the plasma-screen TV. This place looks like SHIT. Your little trio shares a quick look among yourselves and it is immediately and silently agreed that you guys should get the fuck outta there before Mr. and Mrs. Halloe return home from there night in Manhatten.

Alex mutters something about finding his sweater and wanders off. His absentminded statement has reminded you of your complete sweaterless-nessaswell. You suddenly feel very naked and quickly try to remember where you last saw the blue article of clothing. You recall seeing it on the armchair in the basement and begin to make your way down there, leaving your brother with a quick 'stay', which is returned with the slightest of nods. Such a good boy.

You make your way across the living room to the kitchen and then to the basement door, all the while avoiding bodies and beer cans alike, as not to disturb anyone. The door is slightly ajar and, judging by the thick smell of sex, beer, and weed wafting up from the dark chasm that is the Holloe basement, you assume it probably mirrors the current living room situation down there. You are not too fond of heading into what is sure to be the aftermath of complete chaos, you hesitate for only a second before making your way down the stairs. After all, your sweater is down there and its balls-fucking cold up in this bitch.

You nearly trip and die on a beer can about halfway down, but you quickly recover, very thankful that no one could see you lose your hard-won coolness like that. It took many years of aloofness and generally awesome antics for you to be known as the indestructible coolkid. You refuse to have your tittle destroyed by the few ridiculous incidents that occur in moments when you are off your game.

The basement is dim, with only one, weak light illuminating the large space, but all the details are still quite visable. When Alex started bringing home his loud and rowdy football friends, the Halloes decided it would be in everyone's best intrest to convert the basement into teenage paradise. A large flat-screen adorns the wall farthest from the door, a nifty game-set up residing underneath. There is an Xbox, a Playstation, a Nintendo Wii, and even a Nintendo 64, which you had sold Alex for 30 bucks at a garage sale what felt like eons ago. There are two couches on opposite ends of the large space, half-dead teenagers taking up the overwhelming majority of sitting space. Apool table with an unknown classy young lady sleeping on it and a dart board with several forks sticking out of it reside in one corner, a large, comfy-looking arm chair behind it. In that armchair resides a sleeping Krissi, complete with smeared make-up and what appears to be vomit all over the front of her shirt. Also in the chair; a stuffed platypus, several bottles of vodka, and your sweater. YOUR NICE BLUE SWEATER THAT YOUR NANNA GAVE YOU. God dammit, you just can't win with these bitches.

You silently move across the room, easily side-stepping all obstacles that have the pleasure of crossing your path, and make your way over to the sleeping blonde to examine the situation. Yup, this bitch is down for the count. Also, that is defiantly vomit. You sweater is curled into a nice little ball under her ass, which is only half on the over-sized lazy-boy recliner. Your cellphone pokes hazardously out of the pocket, as if itching to fall to its death. As if on cue, the small devices plunges to its certain doom the second you get close, only to be saved by your quick, outstretched hand. Cellular suicide avoided, you pocket the beat-up iPhone, which has seen one to many nights like this to want to continue functioning. Nevertheless, you have serious business to attend to between your sweater, this chair, and Krissi's ass.

What will you do?

You could move her, but she'd probably wake up and be all over you like powder on a coke-whores nose. And with what is currently coating her low-cut tee, you're pretty sure that is not a thing you want to occur at this particular moment.

The blonde sighs, rolling slightly in her sleep and trapping your sweater even more underneath her. You sigh internally, cursing the girl for making you do this. You turn on your heels and make your way toward the door. As much as you hate being without it, that sweater is not worth the encounter with a hung-over whore that you are sure will come with it. Besides, you're sure you can always have Alex give it back to you at school. He's a cool guy, mostly.

You make your way up the stairs and back into the light without incident. You journey back to the living room, only to find that your brother did not in fact 'stay'

Where the hell did that little shit run off too now?

And, on the topic of miniscule bodily excrement, where did that kid Alex go? Though you follow up that train of thought with a swift 'how is that even your business', you can't help but be worried for the kid. He seemed far too young to be coming to parties like this with kids your age. Where the hell are his parents?

A soft chuckle from the open backdoor alerts you to the approximate position of both teens. You make your way toward the source of the noise, only to stumble upon Alex, bent over the edge of the pool, reaching for a raft at the center of the pool with the pool-cleaning-net-thingy and your brother very obviously checking out his ass. You swear, you have no idea where he gets all this amazing coolness. That was sarcasm, by the way.

You clear your throat and gain the attention of both young men, nearly causing Alex to fall face first into the murky, uncleaned pool water. An embarrassed look crosses Jack's face for a fraction of a second before he averts his eyes and becomes very, very interested in the grass beneath his feet. Alex shifts his gaze between the both of you and goes back to whatever the hell he was doing before you so rudely interrupted. You take a few easy steps toward your shorter brother, leaving less than a foot of space between you, and tilt his head upward to get a better view of his neck.

From this angle, the tattoo on his neck is much clearer. It's about the size of a silver-dollar and has the words 'Carpe Dium' inscribed in the heart at its center. It appears to be one of those stars that you would see on a sheriff's badge. It's so ridiculously corny that you let out a snort through your nose. It just HAD to be some chick who picked this tattoo. That, or Jack is much gayer then you initially thought.

As if sensing your internally mockery of him, Jack brushes away your hands and sends you a pointed glare before turning back to Alex, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the back of his head this time. You roll your eyes and turn to Alex as well, though you have no real interests in his rear-end.

"What is it exactly that you're doin?" You say, your voice a little dry and crackier then you had anticipated. You swallow in a half-hearted attempt to recover your usually cool and smooth voice. You really can't be bothered to think about those sort of things with this very interesting young man harassing the pool floaties.

"Some'n tossed my keys onto a god-damn floaty and shipped 'em off to the center of this fuckin pool" he retorts, grunting, then giving a small and excited 'yes!' as he hooks the tail of an alligator floaty with the aforementioned keys hanging resting in its cup-holder. You can't begin to imagine what a large reptile could possibly do with a cup holder, but you don't raise the point. You refuse to indulge anymore pointless thoughts for the rest of the morning and turn toward Jack once more. A troubling thought has just crossed your mind, and a new issue has arisen in the midst of all these pool-related antics. Your car keys are in your sweater pocket. Your sweater is currently under a bitch's butt. Bitches have your keys.

"Bitches got my keys. How we getting home?" You say, really hoping he won't suggest what you think he will. He takes a deep breath in, rubbing his temples, and turns to face you.

"Well," he starts, removing his shades and looking you in the eyes. "we could always call-"

"NO." you stop him, not even considering that an option. Like hell you're calling your prick of a step-father to pick you up. You two do not get along well and you still purposely call him Frank instead of 'Dad', even though your mother married him little over 14 years ago.

Jack sighs and gives you 'the look' and pulls out his phone, more than likely to make the call.

"What part of 'NO' don't you understand? We're not calling him," you say angrily, voice raising only slightly in warning. Jack glares at you, but returns the phone to its proper place in his pocket. Alex, who more than likely heard the whole conversation, whips around to face the two of you.

"Where ya guys headed? If you don't live out by like Montauk or something I could give you a ride" He interjects, shaking his keys out triumphantly in the air in front of him.

"Brentwood. Off of Islip Ave." you state simply. Your house is only 1 exit away from here on the L.I.E. Alex smirks and pockets the keys.

"Come on. My car's down the street." He says, waltzing off in the direction of his vehicle. Jack follows behind him, blushing like a school girl, but otherwise maintaining his stoic disposition. You trail at the end of the three man procession, a slight smirk gracing your lips as you follow your brother and your new friend to the front of the house.