I come home after going out to get some food with my girlfriend. I wasn’t gone for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. I walk into the kitchen to make a couple rum and cokes for us. The kitchen is occupied with a few of my dad’s “friends” and of course his intelligent, beautiful, and thoughtful pregnant girlfriend (all sarcasm excluding the preggo part) eating dinner, as I generally avoid eating dinner with all of them. As I walk in everyone is staring at me. I’m sure I dished out a classic “what the fuck are you looking at?” grin as seasoning onto what I can only imagine is a disgusting entrée of attempted cooking brought to them by my dad’s girlfriend. God help me. Almost immediately, as expected, Preggo opens her mouth first.
“Kayla is drunk,” she said. Kayla is the sixteen month love child produced not so much out of love but through maliciousness, cigarette smoke, and lack of birth control.
“What?” I asked and laughed at the same time.
“She went into your room and drank some left over rum and coke you had in there,” she said, and as a side note her voice is a cross between a jersey shore girl and an extra from
Fargo.
“Well how did that happen?” I asked, slightly intrigued.
“She just like walked in there and drunk it,” she said gracefully with a mouth that I’m pretty sure was filled with a steak and mashed potato combo.
“Yeah, because you weren’t watching her. You never watch her,” I said and expected some sort of an applause that never came.
“Josh! She’s sixteen months, you can’t expect me to keep track of her all the time,” she said and I paused to let the ridiculousness of that sentence settle. It settled about as good as that meal will. I took my drinks and walked away.