The Bro Barfer

If I vomit on my friend's shirt and then my friend tackles me, causing us to crash into a swimming pool and it's pretty sweet (the resulting splash is), and afterward she sees how tight my friend and I are, because we come out of the water with hair slicked back and our arms around each other, already teasing in the familiar ways that might make the blond girl in the sundress and glasses I've been peeking at all night see how tight we are, my vomited-on friend and I, tight in that way she associates with kindheartedness, and if the water washes away the vomit and the red embarrassment from my cheeks, will she fall for me a little bit? Will she think that, because I'm forgoing everything that would readily signify cool—composure, the ability to keep down 12 ounces of liquid, shirts that aren't made by Billabong—will she think that I'm actually cool, in the way that cool can often mean doing what's not cool, like irony? My heart's strained against my ribs and I'm sweating. I can see myself reflected in the lenses of her glasses that sit atop her slightly large nose, a quirk I'm already seeing as beautiful. Did this work? Am I cool?

No.

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