The Infamous Ellen James(3)

I hope it was an unbelievably, ridiculous amount.

The first thirty days were the absolute worst. I moved in with Amy. Well actually I was forced to move in with Amy. She refused to take no for an answer. Amy is nothing if not persistent and extremely stubborn. She does not understand when someone is trying to tell her no. Her stubbornness was a life-saver; moving in with her was one of the best decisions that had ever been made for me.

Our conversation regarding me becoming Amy's new roommate consisted of the following:

"You're fucking moving in with me."



"No I'm not. I'm not letting you do that."



"Stop being such a dumbass. You're moving in with me or else I will tell Dr. Simon you want to bang his brains out."





"You're playing dirty. God! Why are you so damn bossy?”



"I'm going to your old apartment tomorrow and packing your shit. I'll probably tell that dick-munch ex of yours to go fuck himself while I'm there. I love you, roomie."





"Ugh. I love you too."



Amy moved my stuff from John's apartment the very next day. I can only imagine the nasty things she'd managed to spew at him when she was packing up my stuff. I spent countless hours watching mind-numbing reality shows while stuffing my face with Rocky Road ice cream. I refused to leave the apartment, and if it weren't for Amy being such a prying, nosy bitch, I would have shut everyone out of my life. I am fortunate that she stood by my side and helped me pick up the pieces of my battered, pathetic heart.

During the first week, I went into a severe depression.

I couldn't eat, sleep, or even find the motivation to shower. After five days of lying around in my own filth, Amy shoved my stinky ass into a bath and even took the time to wash my hair. Let's face it. If it weren't for her, I'd probably still be lying around in my panties and an old Patriots t-shirt, shoving ice cream down my throat.

As time passed, I began to have moments where I felt like myself again. Although these moments were few and far between, I was happy to know the old Ellen was still in there somewhere.

The second two months were the most interesting to date. I attempted to drown my sorrows in alcohol and find drunken solace in a string of one-night stands.

Nothing says "I'm trying to get over my ex" like going on a tequila bender and waking up with some random, faceless guy passed out in your bed. When guys talk about "beer goggles," I always kind of thought they were full of shit, but now I can say I understand this term one hundred and ten percent. I have had my share of leaving with a hot fucking ten and waking up next to a sweaty, smelly, and far-too-hairy five.

Don't get me wrong. There were a few really attractive men, but there were also some disturbingly pathetic drunken hookups. I guess I just thought that by refusing to date and taking any man I wanted to bed I was somehow getting back at John for what he did.

Deep down I know that most of these random one-night stands were motivated by my newfound trust issues and never-ending yet nonconventional quest to move on. There is one hookup that Amy loves to remind me of, because frankly, it's pretty ridiculous. Not many girls can say she took a deaf guy home, had sloppy sex with him, passed out, and then forgot the next day that said guy is actually hearing impaired.

Yes, you heard me correctly.

I drunkenly screwed a deaf guy, and the next morning, I forgot the guy was in my bed and, more importantly, that he was hearing impaired.





Chapter Four



“Sign language is useful. You never know when you'll find yourself being thrusted by a guy with a hearing impairment and you want to tell him to plunge that dick harder.”



I felt the sunlight filter through my bedroom window and winced from the already prominent hangover headache that was pounding inside of my brain. My head felt as if someone was banging my skull into cement, and the unfortunate tequila aftertaste was making bile rise slowly up my throat. My mouth tasted like someone had shit inside of it, and I could only imagine the breath I was sporting. I jumped out of bed and raced to the bathroom, knowing full well that I was going to be praying to the porcelain gods for a while. Tequila and I had a serious love-hate relationship. I loved to drink her all night long, and then the next day, I hated that bitch something fierce. With my head in the toilet, I proceeded to heave everything out of my stomach until I was sweaty, shivering, and had tears streaming down my cheeks. Worst feeling ever.

"Elle, you okay in there?" I heard Amy say outside the bathroom door.

I groaned out a pathetic yes and continued to go for round two with the toilet bowl. I was having one of those awful hangovers where you truly believed you were going to vomit your entire stomach up and still have no relief in sight.