Because Who Really Sleeps on Christmas Eve?

I just found this and had a good laugh! I figured that maybe you guys were ignoring the normal convention of, you know, sleep and might need something to waste your night away with.

------

That was it. Cameron had to go. Damn the world to hell and back, but there was no way he was staying. He had done it.

He insulted David Lee.

When it was Axel, I could take it. Meatloaf? Yeah, okay, apart from his mad musical genius, he’s just plain weird. But, damn it, when you mess with Van Halen, you mess with me.

You could tell that none of the hellfire and damnation deathrays I was sending were getting through that shaggy, thick-headed skull. He just continued to push the grocery cart, past the couscous and long-grain brown rice, oblivious to my glares and the rock gods he’d just insulted serenading us in the background. I mentally boiled him in the Chef Boyardee I was standing next to as he turned, wondering where the list (me) went. And stopped, innocent, blue eyes questioning.

“Is something wrong?”

Is something wrong?? After six months of cheap, nickelcade dates and midnight discussions (ok, make-out sessions), he asks me if something is wrong?

Oh, he’s gone.

“Cameron,” I said in my calm, cool, negotiator voice, “I think that maybe we need to take stock of our relationship. You know, take a step back, have a look…assess things.”

“Next to the Spaghettios?”

I coolly examined the ruddy cheeked Chef Boyardee on the can I now had in my hand. His forced smile irritated me far more than it should; I like ravioli.

“Assess? We’re not a factory line-up, Jaqueline.” He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, those blue eyes smugly meeting mine, savoring my full name on his full lips. Seeing my inner demon roaring towards him through my boiling eyes, he changed his stance, one hand on the cart, the other languidly resting on his hip, utterly relaxed. Except for those blasted, blue eyes; they burned with newfound pleasure. David Lee Roth sang on, unrepentant about his “hots” for teacher.

I’d pluck those eyes out for David Lee if it was the last thing I did in this mortal life.

“Cameron….”I started, gripping poor, forgotten Chef in my hand.

“Jac-que-line .” He sent back.

And that’s when I chucked Chef’s smiling face at his head.

--------------
“You threw a can of Spaghettios at his head!?” Carla, my best friend for, like, life asked. Again. See, I’ve known Carla since 8th grade; we sat by each other in art. It was the whole, if-we-don’t-team-up-we’ll-be-socially-scarred-for-life-by-the-freaks-around-us. And, no, I’m not being judgmental or stuck up or something. Two of the guys at our table slipped a roofie into our 20something choir teacher’s coffee in high school. Charming fellows. Yeah. Survival was paramount.

“Ravioli. It was Chef Boyardee…” I stared at the swirling, psychedelic dots on her tablecloth, tracing them with my finger. Poor Chef. He didn’t deserve such a cruel fate.

“Hey!” Carla snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Chef, Mickey D, who cares? Point is, you are dang lucky that store owner only kicked you out instead of calling the psychoward to take you away.” She watched me switch to jabbing the small, orange dots. “Something which, quite frankly, I would’ve done. Who throws a can of soup at their boyfriend in the middle of Smith’s? Even if he is a sadistic bastard?”

I glance up, irritated, hands stopping their pointless, inward course. She’s staring down at me, eyebrows through the ceiling. She needs to pluck.