#i committed

“Greg, I’m going to fucking throttle you.” “Y-you mean in, like, uh—” “In a completely platonic and nonsexual way, dude.” “Okay, yeah, cool, just… Y’know, wanted to make sure, because of that—that thing you said the other day?” Laurence visibly recoiled from the memory. It was most certainly not his proudest moment. “I was high,” he replied with the verbal edge of a dull knife; blunt and forceful, requiring more push to tear into the sensitive exoskeleton of Greg’s infantile noggin. “No, yeah, yeah, y-you’re right, my bad…” Greg fiddled around with the still-unlit joint between his fingers, making Laurence feel way too antsy. “Should we… should we not be doing this?” “Doing what?” Laurence asked in a way that felt dreadfully familiar, even to himself. The scoff, the incredulous grin of mockery; it was all too goddamn grotesque. “Like, getting high and stuff together? B-because if I’m leading you on or something—” “Are you fucking serious right now? All I did was ask if you felt like fuckin’ making out a littleeee bit!” This is a nightmare. Actual nightmare blunt rotation, and neither of you are even a little bit intoxicated right now. “I mean, you said how I should be… more vocal about my boundaries and stuff with Tom, so I just—” “Oh my God, stop, stop, stop it. Please, for the love of God, stop fucking talking. Please.” Laurence clutched the sides of his own skull and thought maybe the metaphorical dull knife was actually wedged in his noggin the entire time.