Lost In Translation: It’s The Morning After. And Time For You To Leave.

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I have a raging headache. It feels like Egypt inside my noggin’. It’s not the Coors Original or umpteenth shot of Jack that has me off kilter. Nope. It would have to be THAT YOU’RE STILL LYING IN MY BED.

“What are you doing over there?” you ask.

I’m writing about how annoying you are and how staring at me from the bundled mess of sheets you’ve become tangled in is not cute. I’m ignoring you because pillow talk ended over two and a half hours ago. And that for one reason or another, my constant questioning of whether or not you need a ride home isn’t a strong enough nudge to tell you LEAVE. And how the hell do you think that it’s alright to be wearing my favorite button-down, wrinkled to hell now that you somehow thought it would be better to grab that from my closet rather than the handful of large cotton tees lying around the floor well within reach?

I’m all for wasting away a day underneath my comforter. By myself. Or with good company. But you’re not good company. And I don’t quite understand why you think I am. Let’s face it – we figured out after about five minutes of sober conversation that we have 1) nothing in common, 2) nothing in common, and 3) absolutely nothing in common. I’m not complaining about last night. It was fun. From whatever memories weren’t promptly torn from my head by all those boilermakers I think it was a rambling fine time.

And when I woke up to the sun pouring in through my blinds and the blurred heap of woman beside me straightened itself into you, I didn’t feel poorly about my decision making. You’re attractive. You know that. I know that. But, good god, you are a moron. And that is alright by me, that is if you had rolled out of bed at a decent hour, squeezed back into your jeans, grabbed your jacket and headed for the door. That would have made everything okay. Instead, you stayed in MY bed…where is your morning-after etiquette? I was friendly this morning. Even charming if I may say. I made you a cup of coffee. But I thought that would stir your senses into being…sensible. Not scrambled to where you think you’re welcome to stick around.

While you may have been as physically intimate with me as possible, that does not mean we are intimate across the board. We had what essentially boils down to flesh and bones interactions, which is clear as day now that the steam from our bodies rubbing together has faded. Nothing more.

You should not feel comfortable enough to rummage through my clothes. And lazy Sundays (or whatever day it is) aren’t in our vocabulary. There is little to talk about. That is why we drank heavily and proceeded to strip each other as fast as possible when we stumbled into my apartment. ‘Cause talking…well, it just would’ve been too damn hard. We’re not going to walk over to campus holding hands. We probably won’t talk to each again. Aren't there unwritten ground rules for this, especially after what was a one-night stand? Nice morning cuddle, and if nothing comes of that cuddle, snag your clothes and go. Obviously this would be different if we were in a relationship. But we’re not. We’re not even friends. Why…why…


(Photo via motifake)