"On god if you don't turn that damn song off I'm-"
"Thank you, next!"
You completely ignore the complaining of the man in your living room because this is your apartment and you'll do as you damn well please. That includes playing thank u, next on repeat while you get ready for your mini-thanksgiving. Sydney and Kayla aren't around yet, probably on the hunt for alcohol to buy, and that's just as well because the food won't be ready for another few hours.
Instead of the standard turkey you've opted for cornish hens, one for each of you, and a flurry of sides that are light enough that they'll keep you from having a million leftovers. You've been feeling tired again, and the idea of going to the Big Family Thanksgiving feast seems like you'll be climbing a mountain.
At this point most of the things you're making are simmering or baking so you just have to play the waiting game, but something is keeping you on your feet in the kitchen looking to stay busy. You've washed everything in the sink despite owning a dishwasher, and keep peeking into the oven to look at your chickens (it's your first time making whole ones like this).
Truthfully, you haven't noticed that the song has repeated several times but N'Jadaka can use his expensive, stupid little bluetooth earbuds if he wants peace. That, or leave and go get a bottle of caffeine-free coke like you've asked him to an hour ago.
He saunters over to you after you tell him this, grabbing you round the waist and pulling you flush against him. "Sit down before you fall out. You look tired."
"I guess," you mumble, refastening the foil on the medium pan of macaroni that sits on the countertop. It's still hot, and you're paranoid it's not going to taste like anything (like literally all of your auntie's macaroni). The only person that can make it and have it be cheesy, salty goodness is your dad.
You hum to the song as N'Jadaka pulls you from the kitchen, not wanting to do anything but go to sleep as you sink into the cushions. This is why you wanted to stay busy. The hours of missed sleep are catching up to you and you think that he can tell.
Football plays on the tv in front of you and it makes you yawn the second you look at it. A small nap may just be what you need to indulge in despite everything telling you to stay awake.
"Aye," he suddenly says, finding the off button on your speaker. "Go in there and lay down, I got this."
"No, I'm good," you mutter, shaking your head. "Don't worry about it."
Like most times where you refuse his 'orders,' he gets a look on his face that screams a challenge. Only one thing typically comes after this, and you think it's funny that he thinks you in all your sweaty glory, want to get your back broken. All this, before a shower? You know you're a little ripe. All you've been doing since you got up was running around and sweating.
It shows on your face when you enter your bedroom, observing the shiny 'greasy' appearance of your cheeks and forehead. That paired with your eye bags and frumpy clothes make you look a tad bit out of it, maybe a little bit homeless.
The problem you're finding, as you look through your drawers, is that you don't really know what to put on. Because it's just your friends you don't feel like putting on makeup, nor do you really want to put on any actual pants so you pull out the oversized sweatshirt again.
On the way to the shower you nearly take yourself out trying to make sure you don't throw up on the rugs, feeling the results of that wave of nausea from earlier. N'Jadaka comes to check on you as your entire head is nearly in the toilet, and surprisingly offers no smart-mouthed quip at you. Maybe he can't find anything to say about you violently dry-heaving into the toilet bowl, or maybe he thinks it's horrifying how you sound like a cat coughing up a hairball but hey. It is what it is.
