The Infamous Ellen James(14)

She comes back with a stopwatch, an extra bag of Reese's Cups, a notepad, and a pen.

"What's the pen and paper for?" I sit down in front of the coffee table, mentally preparing myself to crush a bag of Reese's Cups' like a woman who just got her period and is gorging herself after two weeks on a low-carb diet.

"To keep tally of how many Reese's Cups you can eat. Duh." Her tone is completely serious, and I glance up to see if she's actually joking.

She's not. She's one hundred percent serious right now.

"Are you fucking with me right now? You know you could just count the wrappers or even just count out loud as I eat them. I mean, it's only fifteen minutes."

"Oh. Well, maybe I was kidding with you."

"Let's just go with that assumption." I'm laughing a little at her expense, but I can't help myself. Occasionally, Amy has these rare moments that are absolutely hilarious and have me temporarily questioning what goes on inside that head of hers.

Fifteen minutes later…

I'm lying flat on my back, trying to avoid throwing up chocolate covered peanut butter. My mouth is watering like a faucet and my esophagus feels like it's boiling in undigested candy. I'm so nauseous that I can't even sit up straight, and I'm sure the large amount of wine I've consumed isn't helping my cause.

When I was eight minutes into my Reese's Cup challenge, Amy and I ran out of wine. We both decided that I obviously could not go on with the challenge unless I had more wine to help wash the candy down. Logical, right? Amy managed to find another bottle of some cheap red wine in the kitchen pantry. Now, I'm two bottles-of-wine deep, and I just consumed eighteen Reese's Cups in fifteen minutes. Fuck.

"What do you think about that new surgeon who's watching over Dr. Grey's practice?" I continue to stare up at the ceiling of our apartment, counting the tiles and tiny cracks that are dispersed throughout. I'm trying desperately to get my mind off the fact that I might hurl all over our living room carpet.

"I think he's pretty hot and seems to make 'fuck me' eyes at you," Amy answers before beginning her routine of drunken hiccups.

"'Fuck me' eyes? You're crazy, you know that?"

"Yes, I know I'm crazy. That's why you love me so much. And yes, 'fuck me' eyes. Dr. Hamilton wants to thrust you something fierce."

Well, his dick sure seemed interested when he kissed me senseless in the supply room the other day…

“I feel like I've met him before. I get this feeling of déjà vu whenever I'm around him."

Amy giggles a couple of times and then glances over at me from the couch. "You need to start working on your 'Thrust me, Dr. Hamilton' campaign.'"

I just look over at Amy and start laughing.

There is no way I'm going to let her know about the supply room incident. If I let her know that Dr. Hamilton and I kissed, she would seriously lose her shit. And Amy with two bottles of wine in her system and losing her shit is not a good scenario for me. I can already picture her tracking down his number and inviting him over to our apartment tonight with, "Hey, Dr. Fuck-Me-Eyes, you should come over and bang my Elle into next Tuesday."

Yeah, that definitely wouldn't make things awkward for everyone at work tomorrow.

"What, Elle? I'm serious. With a body like that, I bet that man would screw you senseless. Can I at least be in the room when you two bang it out for the first time?"

"Sure thing, dickhead. If Dr. Hamilton and I get our freak on, I'll make sure you have a front-row seat. Actually, I'll just bring him back to your room and let him bang me while you're sleeping right next to me."

"Yessssss! That's what I'm talking about! And I most definitely will not be sleeping while he's pounding your snatch," Amy says before she starts singing a song that consists of one only verse…

I get to see Elle and Dr. Fuck-Me-Eyes thrust.

Yeah, definitely not a good idea to tell her about the kiss in the supply room.

I stay on the floor for a good thirty minutes and manage to recover from my sugar-alcohol overdose. I'm still shitfaced, but that feeling is always welcome in this apartment. Amy and I continue to laugh hysterically as we watch Bridesmaids. We're both drunk to the nines, and this can be a dangerous scenario when we are left alone together.

The Merlot has stained both of our teeth red and we take at least fifty selfies with our phones while giggling uncontrollably. We take a few minutes to drunk dial a few of our closest friends and then decide to take a gander at funny YouTube videos. Amy scrolls to a Harlem Shake video and we both start laughing, remembering my performance the other night at Murphy's.

"Hey, friennnnd, we should post my Harlem Shake video on YouTube!" I slur to Amy as I pet her hair.