31st December 2009 and Isaac Taylor was sedentary on the toilet.
He'd been almost motionless for twenty-eight minutes, by his watch. Isaac glanced down at it once more, just to certify the fact. Gentle light from the overhead lamp caused a reflection that hid the face from his eyes; forcing him to tilt his wrist slighty.
Yep, it's been twenty-eight minutes Bucko, time to face the music
That strikes me as pretty satyrical Boss
My wit doesn't matter right now, Buck, the girl does
Right you are Boss, does that mean i'm gettin' off the sh*tter?
Language, Buck. Get go em.

Isaac Taylor had been hosting these internal conversations with himself for as long as he could remember, and, thankfully, had neglected to tell anyone about them. Right now, he felt like Bucko though. This was not necessarily a good thing, as Bucko's confidence was lacking: confidence was definately compulsary at this moment though.
Isaac was currently attending the New Year's Eve party that was hosted by the girl of his dreams. He'd been present at the modest five-bedroomed detached house for a few hours now, having arrived at seven o'clock sharpish - it was now quarter to eleven. Seeing as though it was his final year of high school, booze was aplenty at this social gathering, and Isaac had indeed consumed his weight in mead.
He now pondered as to why there would be mead at a party milling with middle-class people, while he prepared himself to rise from the closed lid of the toilet.
His mind quickly switched to the task of guessing at the condition of his friends: Derren - who was undoubtably comandeering the hi-fi system, the sound of thrash that could have been Slayer or Kreator testament to this thought - and Justin - more than likely in one of the locked bedrooms with a girl of his choice, maybe that red-head that he'd been engaged in drunken conversation with when Isaac had left him.
Locking himself away like this had certainly helped him, he'd kind of... mentally regurgitated himself, then ate back up all the important bits.
He knew that Beth had given him what he called 'the eye' more than once so far into the night, and that he'd had a conversation with her almost bursting with innuendo not long before he went into his reverie. Isaac's confidence was scraping the clouds just after he walked away from her through the bustling crowds of teenagers.
Every face had been full of friendliness and cheer and general goodness. It was all so bright, so enticing - the flavours of alcohol and party food in his mouth were delicious, fresh. Beth's touch on his hand when he'd left her was so sharp and vibrant. Isaac felt alive and electric and he could smell marajuana and perfume and aftershave and tobacco. He could smell goodness, taste it, feel it. He WAS Boss.
Then, when he'd looked back and saw Beth talking to another guy, one of the jocks, who stood almost a head taller than Isaac, he'd shrivelled inside. They were so close, those smiles so seductive and eyes so suggestive...
At that moment, everything became dark. His mouth was dry, his tongue, bitter. Those smiles painted on the faces of each and every person in the room seemed mocking, their eyes hateful -
Stop right there Bucko

This snapped Isaac back out of his train of thought,
Right, sorry again Boss, better get to it hadn't i?
Indeed, Buck, get up, and get back in there

Isaac stood up quickly, feeling the joints in his knees groan and then click once in each. He bent down and touched his toes, keeping his legs straight, feeling more clicks in the base of his back. He straightened up again and smoothed down his shirt, a crimson job that'd cost him big bucks with the rest of the get-up a few months back. He undid the plain silver cufflinks, dropped them into his breast pocket, then rolled his sleeves up, before giving himself a once-over in the mirror. Isaac could see Bucko painted all over his face, peering out through brown eyes, whispering through pursed lips, dragging on light stubble, in the subtle shadows cast by his shoulder-length black hair which was at the moment, mostly tied back. He tried to recompose himself, maybe pull back some of the Boss' vestiges, but didn't feel that he did a good job before he went to pursue his quarry.
The clock struck eleven.

That was interesting, I'd really like to see where this is going.