25

Twenty-five is a quarter of a century. It’s George Washington’s head, and the number of bang hairs that go rogue on my forehead every morning. Twenty-five is an angry mob, an average amount for Buzzfeed lists, and a substantial amount of potatoes. Now it’s me. I’m twenty-five. Fuck.

I know I must be 25 because I just woke up from a dream where I was being chased by hungry wolves. Turning to look at my bedside clock, I see that it’s 7:25am; another twenty-five I’m not ready for. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see dirty blond Todd next to me in bed, emitting snores. A river of spit flows down the side of his face, and as I gaze up at him, I can see straight into his nose, into a swarm of boogers. I have been sleeping with him for nine months.

I press his nose with my finger, hoping it’ll shut him the hell up. Todd groans and opens his eyes, peering at me, making me wonder what he’s thinking. He smiles his sweet little boy smile and just as I wonder if I’ve been misjudging him, he says, “Will you give me some head?”

Happy fucking birthday to me. “No,” I respond.          

“Aww c’mon. You give such good head.”

“Oh, do I? No.”

He gives me a pouty face and I wonder if I'm his lover or his baby-sitter.

“Sorry. I just woke up. And my stomach feels like it’s full of lead.” “Lead” is code for “whiskey-induced gas.”

He doesn’t say anything. Sometimes I wish I was still in high school, when guys were so grateful that you were even having sex with them at all. 

“Fine.” He rubs his eyes. “Want to get some breakfast?”

At least he knows my favorite question. “Yeah, sure.”