Fuck, You're a Riot

It's Halloween, and yes, I'm working. Fucking Starbucks. Making cold brews for all of the white bitches who come in wearing slutty costumes. And they all stare and grimace at me. Maybe it's the tattoos, or the hair, or the makeup, but honestly, I don't care what they think. They don't mean anything anyway.
Back in the moment, my boss calls me from the counter.
I hate my boss, because he looks like a cross between Megamind and a pedophile.
"FRANK!?" he screams at me.
"What? What did I do now?" I say back to him, trying to calm him down, because he looks atrociously angry.
"Frank," he half-whispers to me, "there's money missing from the register."
"That wasn't me, sir," I sobered up real quick, trying to be respectful.
"I'm not sure, but you're the only one that's been here all day. I'm afraid we'll have to let you go, no strings attached, as long as corporate doesn't know. And if you really did take the money, please let me know." He sneers.
I take off my little fucking apron and give it to the asshole. And I walk straight out of there.
I get into my car, and I light up a Marlboro. I take a long drag and savor it.
I start the car, and hit the gas, pulling out of that parking lot for what would be the last time, when I flick ash on my thigh, still burning, and I watch the little hole burn in my pants.
I feel the ember hit my skin, but I don't mind the pain. I hate my thighs, more than anything. I wish I was thinner, but fasting and restriction doesn't work for me. I'm 113 lbs, which is completely unacceptable.
But I pull into the McDonald's anyway.
At the kiosk, I remorsefully order 2 Big Mac's and a large fry.
But what I see in the window is amazing. Long, dark hair and a fragile face, with big eyes. A tag that says "Gerard". His big eyes gaze at me as he hands me my heart attack in a bag, and I take it. I wish I could take his hand, maybe hold him. He looked like the soft type.
I take the food and pick up my cigarette, and find a place to park in the lot of a fucking McDonalds. I finish the stick and get out the first cheeseburger. It's gone in about fifteen seconds, along with the second one. I feel sick as I down the fries, too. And now it's time to throw up, my body decides.
And there, in the parking lot of a McDonalds, I open my car door and throw up everything I just ate.
And out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy that was at the window.
Gerard. Coming straight at me, looking concerned.
Oh, fuck. I try to compose myself, but how does one compose themselves when you just threw up about 2,500 calories?
"Hey, uh, are you okay?" he half-shouts as he walks toward me. He has a kind of singsong voice that's completely adorable. One of a singer.
I don't respond, because 1. I just threw up and 2. I don't know what exactly to say to him.
He gets closer, and I get more nervous.
He walks up to the driver's side of my Kia and asked me my name, in the same voice he had before.
"Uh, it's Frank." I stutter back to him.
"Hey, Frank. You doing okay?" He asks, with concern in his eyes.
"Well, yes and no, but I'm not sure." I falter back.
"I'm Gerard, Frank, nice to meet ya. I know this may sound weird, but, you mind if I talk to you for a second?"
In any other rational situation, I wouldn't have let a total stranger into my car to talk to me, but I unlocked the passenger door anyway and let him in.
Looking back, this was the best decision of my life, at that point.
But I let Gerard in.

Notes