Chapter Text
Of course, I've seen some of his films and parts of the T.V. series; I always thought he was, well, gorgeous, sex-on-legs, -- but, you know, a million miles from the world I live in. Which is here -- Beacon Hills, CA -- not a bad place to be…
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“Seven A.M. the usual morning line up…”
I groan and roll, pawing at the rickety table, searching for the source of all of my problems. “Scott! I’m gonna kill...yo…”, fading back to incoherency.
I’m so unmotivated to wake-up and bring myself back to the perpetual cyclonic boringness which is my life these days, I can’t even curse my stupid roommate (but really he’s my chosen forever-brother, you know?) properly. I must be losing my touch.
“Just wonder when will my life begin…”
I finally gather the strength to silence that devil, she-witch, Mandy-Moore-not-Kristen-Bell hooker. I am seriously going to kill him for changing my alarm yet again to the sounds of Tangled. That blonde dumbass had a solitary tower oasis all to herself and chose to voluntarily wake-up every morning at 7am. Idiot.
Sitting up slowly and rubbing my eyes, I remember why Scott had the opportunity to ruin my morning with his covert and less than brilliant pranks; I need to stop drinking whiskey on work-nights and waking up on the couch. This is probably why I have a playing card stuck to my face. I peel off the card and look at the black print assembling itself into words on its white background as my morning vision clears: “Whining like a little bitch”. Oh Cards Against Humanity, you really are the cruelest of all the games.
I fist through my hair a couple of times to orient myself and palm down the achingly familiar morning wood. Just another Wednesday; time to get up and go to work with the knowledge that today, tomorrow, and next week will all be the same mundane pattern: lather…rinse...repeat. With that thrilling reminder, I decide it’s probably time to zombie walk myself over to the shower, and assemble the pieces back together to produce something that resembles a normalish-looking human being.
When I hit the bathroom, I turn around and survey the scene of the small living room: black and white cards litter the beige carpet like confetti with a couple of beer bottles strewn throughout to give the floor some color. Allison’s coat is still slung over one of the kitchen stools which means at least someone in here’s getting lucky. The pizza pan with two uneaten pieces (Breakfast - score!) sits on the counter, next to sad, empty boxes of now-eaten mozzarella sticks. The dull light coming in through the window illuminates a bunch of discarded dishes in the sink annoyingly aching for some attention. It’s like a new-age Norman Rockwell: The Unmotivated American Boy’s Life at 23.
The shower takes a bit longer than expected, probably because I’m so touch-starved I take the five extra minutes to jack it while resting my head on the cool, green tile. After my last relationship ended two weeks before graduation with a “I think our lives are just going in different directions” bullshit commencement speech specially written for yours truly, I haven’t gotten any action which accounts for most of my life’s current state of perpetual suckage. I watch my release wash down the drain, poignantly representing the best part of my day that has now passed. Dutifully, I wash my hair and body and reluctantly turn off the stream of hot water.
I brush my teeth and grab my super awesome Captain America towel from behind the door (it’s okay to be jealous, I know) wrapping it around my waist. I assess myself in the mirror, gazing at the lanky boy looking disapprovingly back at me. Everyone’s a critic today. I make my way back to my room tripping a heeled shoe along the route to finish the morning routine.
Back in my small room, I pick through the clean laundry I haven’t yet found the motivation to fold and put away in my dresser and closet. I select the boxers, jeans, X-Men shirt, and overlapping signature plaid button-down which make up the usual costume for the day. My red hoodie is draped across the back of my computer chair which I grab to complete my signature look and then find my socks and high-topped converse by the door. I shuffle the piles on my desk around and finally locate my wallet and keys; just have to recollect the phone from the living room and I’ll be on my way with said hoodie under my arm.
I exit my room to find a lazily disheveled, shaggy haired roommate at the kitchen counter licking his fingers while swallowing the last bite of the last piece of pizza and giving me the smallest bro-nod. I look at him and shake my head: “You get laid and get my breakfast. You’re lucky I love you, asshole.” I swipe my phone from the coffee table and make my way for the door, hearing Scott grunt something after me.
Just another day in good old Beacon Hills. I don’t expect today to be any different than yesterday and I’ll get to wake up and do it all again tomorrow. That stupid refrain is going to be in my head all day.
“Stuck in the same place I’ve always been...And I'll keep wonderin' and wonderin', and wonderin', and wonderin' When will my life begin?” Perfect. Just perfect.