Read The Infamous Ellen James (Infamous Series) for Free Online Page B

tequila, we had an hour-long discussion on why you had a dream that you gave Honey Boo Boo shaken baby syndrome,” Amy says while attempting to find a pair of my pants on the floor.
    “Hey there, Ms. Judgy. I was seriously freaked out from that dream about Honey Boo Boo! That little pageant queen was so pissed that I'd taken her Red Bull and Pixy Sticks away that she threatened my life! I honestly had no other choice but to shake the ever-living shit out of her. I still don't understand how a grown child hopped up on energy drinks could get shaken baby syndrome.”
    I slide on the pair of black yoga pants Amy threw on my bed and attempt to stand up without falling face-first into the hardwood floor.
    “Calm down, crazy. There is no explanation for that, because it was a dream . A tequila dream at that. Anyways, I think Honey Boo Boo might already have shaken baby syndrome,” Amy says with a smirk before she walks out of my bedroom.
    “Tequila does not make me dream crazy shit!” I scream at the top of my lungs towards the hallway, which unfortunately causes a throbbing pain inside my skull.
    “Denial is the first step towards realizing you have a problem!” Amy yells back.
    She is quite the sarcastic bitch.
     

 
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    “Technology makes it impossible to escape moments of drunken insanity.”
     
    I walk out into the kitchen to find Amy making coffee. Two mugs are already set out on the counter with my favorite French vanilla creamer.
    What a sweetheart.
    "If I liked vagina, you would definitely be my number one lesbian lover," I tell Amy as I grab ibuprofen from our communal medicine basket. We might as well have a bowl of them on our coffee table like damn M&Ms.
    "Aw, Elle, you always know just the right things to say to a girl." Amy smiles at me.
    "So are we going to talk about what the hell happened last night?" I glance down at my Shirley Swallows t-shirt.
    Amy lets out a loud laugh and shakes her head at me. "Oh, Elle, I'm not even sure how to start this conversation with you."
    "Is it really that bad?"
    "Depends on what you consider bad. If you attempting to get the bar to make a Harlem Shake video is something you would consider bad, then yes. Prepare yourself to hear the worst." She pours coffee into both mugs.
    "Whaaat? A Harlem Shake video? Oh, fuck me. Please tell me there is no documentation of this."
    Amy picks her phone up off the counter and hands it to me. "Actually there is video proof."
    "Video proof!?" I quickly take the phone out of her hand and scroll to her videos.
    I don't even have to ask which one it is, because I see a video icon that is a picture of me with my Shirley Swallows shirt. I'm assuming this shirt is in reference to our nursing manager Shirley. I am praying she is not directly involved with last night's shenanigans.
    I take my coffee mug off the kitchen counter, toss back the ibuprofen, and sit down at the table. Amy sits down next to me, and I can tell she is fighting back a smile. I don't even have to look over; I can feel her enjoyment. I sigh in anticipation before pressing play.
    The video starts with Amy turning the camera towards her; she smiles, her brown eyes sparkling as she drunkenly says, "You can thank me later for this."
    Add 100 cunt points. Supreme cunt status achieved by the dickhead sitting next to me.
    The camera turns towards the corner of the bar. I notice that someone with a motorcycle helmet is standing completely still while everyone else in the bar is going about their business, conversing, and drinking. Then I notice that said person is wearing a Shirley Swallows t-shirt.
    Oh, no.
    The intro to the Harlem Shake begins to play loudly in the bar, and that is when I begin to awkwardly thrust my pelvis to the beat of the music. Don't worry, the motorcycle helmet is still on my fucking head.
    I'm going to kill Amy for this.
    The song continues, and I am still in the corner of the bar, gyrating and pelvic thrusting like a god damn idiot. The