Chapter Text
According to John, I’m being too harsh on Dave. I’m nitpicking everything and ignoring that he has problems, too. I’m harbouring illogical amounts of hatred towards him.
According to me, my hatred is perfectly reasonable. The guy’s a douche. Yeah, he probably has his own problems, but, as far as I know, they don’t amount to much. Oh, what, he’s fucking popular? But, wait! The asshole isn’t popular, really. People just use him as a step on the ladder of popularity. Well, fuck him, because people do that to everyone. No, wait, he’s also got family issues. From what I’ve heard, his gigantic ego backfired on him and ended up estranging him from everyone in his damned family except for Rose. Hell, even if it wasn’t his ego, I’d have dumped the little prick in front of a fucking fire station in a box as soon as I saw him. But, hey, I guess that’s what they call ‘motherly love.’
As far as I’m concerned, all of his problems are the problems that pretty much every-fucking-one else has. If they’re not widespread, then it’s his own damned fault that the problem is even a goddamned issue. I mean, other people have it a whole lot worse. He might be a vagabond, but he’s got enough money stashed away to keep himself comfortable.
Yet, for some reason, John’s insistent upon the fact that I need to find a way to get along with Dave if I’ll be working with him. I suppose he has a point. A strained relationship probably won’t go very far on camera, but, to be honest, it’s a stupid little video mashup. It doesn’t matter. Now, I’ve tried to communicate this to John many times. I’ve assured him time and time again that I have no interest in hanging around the asshole after the project is finished. Yet, it never works.
Fortunately for me, though, John is neither my mother nor my father. (If either situation were true, then it would be an extremely awkward but completely different scenario, anyhow.) So, logically, I don’t have to give a damn about any of the shit that constantly spews from his opened mouth like sludge from a rusty drainage pipe.
Aside from that, the first day’s filming session is over and nothing too annoying happened during it. In fact, it went relatively well and I don’t exactly plan on going back and redoing anything—especially not with Dave. So, I suppose I don’t actually have to get along with my workers. Moreover, I haven’t had to talk to Dave for the duration of this stupid thing. The most I’ve said to him was to straighten his back and look angrier. That’s it.
Maybe this whole thing won’t be as big of an ordeal as I thought it would be…
No, never mind. I take that back.
A snowstorm ended up hitting the area a few hours after filming ended. Seeing as Dave lives a good half an hour away, going home isn’t exactly an option for him. Aside from that, the stupid motel he stays at is too damned shitty to actually have heating. And, probably because the world hates me, he’s staying here.
I had hoped that Rose would be able to take him back with her, but she and Kanaya are apparently doing their own stupid, romantic shit tonight. So, that means we—and by we, I mean John and I—get the misfortune of catering to the little snotfucker tonight.
And, so it is that I happen to be sleeping on the floor, with the damned asshole in my bed. I manage to drift off to sleep for all of two hours—coaxing myself into my lovely disconnect by reminding myself that the faster I go sleep, the less time I’ll have to spend around the damned shitstain. Then, I’m woken by the sound of the unwanted guest’s alarm going off.
The alarm, itself, is but a shrill, terribly digitised version of some disgusting monstrosity known as dubstep. Each note seems to be beyond the electronic capabilities of the inconsiderate prick’s shitty old phone. At least, that is if the electronic screeches—like robotic cats screaming in agony—are any sign of electronic inadequacy.
I consider saying something to the little fuckknocker. Something like, “Hey, bastard, there are people in the room besides you,” but I refrain from actually doing so. I figure that waking John with my verbal expressions of annoyance is on the same level as Sir Everything-is-me’s inconsiderate stupidity. So, I merely pretend that I am perfectly fine and sleeping like a drugged baby.
Of course, this acting—which, from me, is probably as believable as a stoned hillbilly’s attempt to emulate Don Juan—doesn’t stop me from observing how the little douchenozzle goes about his daily life. As I completely expect, he doesn’t seem to mind paying any heed to common courtesy, seeing as one of the first things he does after waking up is tripping over me. He doesn’t take much pride in himself, either, seeing as he doesn’t even bother to shave the ugly stubble which, despite its pale colouration, is still clearly visible in the early morning light.
Aside from these two observations, there’s only one other thing that strikes me as odd about him: he seems confused. He wanders about for several minutes, seemingly unaware of what he’s doing or where he is. I assume this is likely due to his ignorance, though, and comfort myself by closing my eyes and attempting to go back to sleep.
Knowing fully that he’ll be gone by morning, I quickly drift off and, just before I’m about to slip into the world of dreams and solitude, I hear the door close.