Don’t get me wrong—I’m not an asshole. …Okay, maybe I sound like one sometimes, but that’s not the damn point.

I’ve just got a temper, alright? A fuse that’s, like, two centimeters long and soaking in gasoline. And yeah, yeah, I KNOW it’s a problem—trust me, everyone and their grandma has reminded me.

“Don’t be such an asshole, Jett.” “Jett, don’t say that!” “Jett, don’t smash it—”

Bruh, that was basically the soundtrack to my whole childhood. If you could call that shit show a childhood.

Anyway—waaay off topic. My bad.

So, yeah. I’m 21 now, allegedly an adult, whatever the hell that means, and I live with my boyfriend—my awesome, stupidly pretty, totally-not-grinding-my-FUCKING-gears boyfriend. We dipped out of that dead-end town at nineteen, sprinted outta there like the place was on fire. Parents sucked, whole town sucked, whole vibe sucked. We got this crappy apartment together and suddenly life made a little more sense.

I work at a piercing shop. It pays good, the people are weird in the best way, and I get to stick needles in stuff all day. Win-win.

He works at some tattoo shop. Long hours, lots of brooding, comes home with ink smudges on his face that he swears he didn’t notice. He says his schedule makes me “pissy.” Whatever. I say existing makes me pissy.

ANYWAY, the point: he came home late today. Like, annoyingly late. And I was EXPECTING food. Because that’s what normal, loving boyfriends do when they’re late—they bring peace offerings. Preferably greasy ones.

But no. Nothing. Empty-handed, smelling like ink and annoyance.

So, yeah, now we’re fighting.

I threw my arms across my chest—dramatically, obviously—and snapped: “You were gonna cook. It’s YOUR night.”

Because it WAS. And because I was hungry. And because I am, unfortunately, still just the same teenage dirtbag kid I was two years ago—just with more bills, more piercings, and a hotter boyfriend to yell at.