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Thumping and dragging noises came from the living room. I looked around for a weapon. That four-foot-bong in the corner would do nicely.

"I just wanna talk to her, Matthew."

"No — stop it, Gina! I broke up with you, remember?"

The bile of superiority rose thick in my throat.

"Matthew, you love me," Gina sobbed. "I love you, Matty. I know what you need. Matt. I love you."

Matty and Gina. Gina 'n' Matt. Togethuh Forevah. The sobs died down to whimpers, then rustling, like they were fighting over a bag of potato chips. My stomach growled. I wondered what the albino python thought of all this.

"Enough," Cool Guy said, sounding tired. "Gina, stop."

"No, honey. I'm gonna show you how much I love you."

"Don't do this, Gina," he said. "Put your shirt back on."

"Kiss me, Matty. Please. Just kiss me."

Yes, they were definitely sick and deserved only each other. Still, I jealously strained to hear any slurping noises. I mean, he better not

My life was now officially a ten on the Southern-Fried-Boogie-Rock Scale.

be all kissing her and shit.

I couldn't hear anything. Drowning out all noise from the living room was a catchy, fingerpickin' lick that began playing in my head.

Dare-dare-dare-delare

dare-dare-dare-dare-dare

It was the guitar intro to the Allman Brothers' song "One Way Out," the song about being trapped upstairs in some chick's bedroom when her man comes in the door downstairs.

Ain't but one way out baby, and Lord I just can't go out the door.

My life was now officially a ten on the Southern-Fried-Boogie-Rock Scale.

In the song, there's only one way out: the window. Not such a bad idea. I kneeled on the bed and moved the towel that hung like a curtain over the window.

Alas, I couldn't escape through the window like Gregg Allman. The pane didn't actually open. Furthermore, I could now see this was no cute cottage — it was one of those fake houses that was really a TRAILER!

I ripped the towel down off its staples and wrapped it around my fist, intending to punch out the glass.

I froze, picturing myself standing outside in the Ag-school pasture, surrounded by cowshit sundaes topped with cherry-colored psychedelic mushrooms. Naked.

Where wuz my clothes at?

Had I actually thought that, in that accent? This whole situation reeked like a stained rag hanging out of the gas tank of a rusty old Chevy truck, and nobody stunk worse than me. I.

"Dammit, Gina!" Cool Guy roared.

The music in my head stopped like someone had yanked the needle off a record.

"You know I never liked your striptease act," Cool Guy continued. His mouth sounded full. "I hate you, Gina. Get out. Now. Leave."

A trail of sniffled, impotent threats ended with the soft slam of the front door.

Cool Guy came back into the bedroom. I pretended to be asleep. He got back in bed, still nude, and spooned up against me. His beard

I pushed out my behind in a fake-sleepy "knock it off" gesture, which he completely misread.

grazed my neck, sending a chill down my spine. He started rubbing in that insistent way that heterosexual women all over the world have known at some point or another. He rubbed and rubbed, sawing away at my butt cheeks. I pushed out my behind in a fake-sleepy"knock it off" gesture, which he completely misread.

"Ohhhhhhhh," he said, his voice quavering like an old gold prospector's. "Ya wan' me t'stick it in yer asshole, babe?"

If someone's body could fill up with vomit, it would have been mine, at that moment. I clenched my butt cheeks together and let out an embarassingly fake snore.

Fooled, Cool Guy rolled onto his back and took care of himself.

Rocked to sleep by the motion, I dozed off for real. It was a pleasant, unexamined sleep.

"Babe. Babe, wake up," Cool Guy said, rattling my shoulder. "I made you some breakfast."

Opening my eyes, I was nearly blinded by the ugliest blouse I had ever seen. It was gray with a wacky, cubist design sprinkled across it, a hideous pattern some horribly misguided person had deemed casual yet manly.

The buttons were shaped like scarab beetles.

There was also a doo-rag.

"I call it marijuana marmalade," said the lips in the middle of the beard atop the blouse below the turquoise bandanna. "I made it myself, with a gelling agent I stole from pathology lab."

There was no way out.

I took a bite. It tasted like a moldy shower curtain.

"Mmmmmm," I gagged, licking my fingers. "Dude. Nice blouse."  n°

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Sarah Thyre is an actress and writer. Her memoir, Dark at the Roots, will be published in March by Counterpoint Books. She lives in Los Angeles with her two children and her husband, Andy Richter. Visit Sarah Thyre's Website