I need to take another one of my vyvanse that I completely abuse. Not because of you. Before you even came into the picture, I was back home, abusing the shit out of the speed I had. Because of Ryan. Because I was depressed being back home. Because of the disappointment I’m sure my family and friends felt for me because I’d ruined my first year of college. I over exaggerate how much I liked you, I think. I wish this wouldn’t have happened.
I remember the days before we saw each other that night at Brian’s. My great grandfather had passed away. The second great grandfather I’d lost in a month and a half’s time. I’d been so disconnected from myself that I can’t even remember the emotion that I felt about it. I was sad, obviously, but I was more sad, selfishly, about my own situation. I always have been. I’ve always centered in on all of the sad things that have happened to me. My mindset in the days before we saw each other that night was no different from the way I usually felt, even in New Orleans. Apathetic. I felt sorry for myself, like I always have, and still do. I was lingering on things that didn’t matter, like I always have, and of course, still do. I didn’t think I had enough alcohol to withstand a night at Brian’s, where it felt like high school all over again, being out with Ashley and Marie, seeing all the usual high school kids that I’d thought I’d forgotten about while I spent my short, short time in New Orleans. I felt sorry for myself when N walked in the door with his new girlfriend, who I had no problem with except that her boyfriend and I had had this weird little thing during the summer before I left for Nola the first time. I just felt uncomfortable seeing him for the first time with a girl I’d always liked, because of the small, insignificant point in time that me and him liked each other, before I got drunk and scared him off…typical.
Anyway, they walked in and I started to inconspicuously chug my drink, and I saw you. I liked you already. I’d liked you since I’d met you for the first time, sitting outside of that bar we both couldn’t get into until Max let us know the people checking ID’s didn’t care if 17 year olds came in. I liked your humor, even though that memory outside of Sylvia’s that one night senior year is distant and I’m not even sure what we really talked about. I just knew you were funny and always drunk and everyone liked you. I knew we were acquaintances since you’d helped me with wasted my wasted little sister a few nights or weeks before, at Philip’s. I knew I thought it was hilarious that you were in some kind of relationship with a girl 4 years younger than you, who I’d known for years, and kind of admired, for weaseling her way into a relationship with someone as messily attractive as you. And we hugged and asked each other how we’d been since that last night we’d seen each other, and we sat back down and talked with our friends, and I didn’t think much more about you. I had other things on my mind…like how I was driving home that night and I was getting too drunk to talk, and how Ashley was about to succumb to her ex boyfriend’s inquiries of her going to his house down the street from Brian’s, and how Lucy and I hadn’t been on speaking terms for a good week. After I finally got my keys from you and all the other boys jokingly passing them around, I got in my car, dropped Ashley off at Nick’s, something I knew she’d be regretting in the morning, I puked a little bit after my car wouldn’t start for ten minutes, and before I made it all the way down Lake St., I realized I couldn’t drive.
So, was this the reason all of this happened? Because I caught myself way too drunk to drive one night and actually made the smart decision to stop at the apartment I thought Lucy lived in? Did this all start because I just wanted a ride home that guaranteed I wouldn’t get pulled over and put in more shit than I was already in?
I stumbled up to Lucy’s apartment to Dez, who informed me she didn’t live there anymore (something that happened occasionally because Lucy and her stupid ex boyfriend fought more than 5 year old girls over Barbies) and got Lucy on the phone, and sat on her couch awkwardly while I waited for her to come and pick me up, even though we hadn’t spoken in almost two weeks. She got there, drove my car and got me Taco Bell, listened to me cry over something I don’t really remember, and told me you had texted her and wanted to hang out. I’d sobered up a little bit by then, but got overly excited when Lucy told me you wanted us to pick you up. I don’t know why. I thought you were s0o0o0o0 cool and you had the c0o0o0o0lest sense of humor and the funniest things to say. I also thought you were absolutely adorable, especially the last few times I’d seen you, drunk off your ass, as usual, yelling loudly about something, in your dirty, old, plaid hoodie. And I remember going to pick you up, and getting in N’s face when he came up to the car window, looking at me as if he thought I was plotting something in my head. And the more I turned from the front seat to slur something clever at you while Lucy drove, the more I kind of did begin to plot something, or think about it. Some weird energy you gave off must have made you more appealing to me. Or maybe it was because the last few people I’d drunkenly hooked up with since I’d been home lacked severely in the personality department. Or they just didn’t talk that much because that wasn’t a factor in getting me to start making out with them. I don’t know, douche bag, I just thought you were the cutest, drunk, stupid thing, and Lucy must’ve caught on too, because the more I spat out flirty replies to you, the more looks Lucy shot at me. Lucy’s eyes said, “Fucking idiot, he’s with someone, stay away, you drunk slut, I know what you’re thinking.” And I smiled back at her every time she glared at me while she drove, as if to say, “I know you know what I’m doing, but he won’t do anything to hit on me, he’s just a funny boy, shut up.”
Then you asked if you could “crash at my place,” something I cheerfully agreed with, because it would’ve been stupid if I wouldn’t have said yes. And then I had to drive your car to my house, your stupid, deteriorating car, and I don’t remember what we talked about. I’m sure I was laughing. You always knew how to make me laugh hysterically, you stupid idiot.
And we got back into the car with Lucy, because for some reason, getting more alcohol to drink at 3am sounded like a good idea. I think Lucy knew it wasn’t, but you and I were set on it, and I liked that about you, because you were probably one of the only people I’d come to know who was interested in drinking even more than already consumed at a ridiculous hour of the night.
Was that what happened? If we wouldn’t have wanted more alcohol, and if Lucy wouldn’t have jumped out of the car to run into her house, leaving you and I alone in the front seat, would anything have happened? Would I mother fucking hate you right now? I don’t know. But then you started slapping my shoulder, and I didn’t get it. I didn’t know if you were just stupid and drunk, or if you were being stupid and drunk and trying to hit on me, in the most stupid and drunk way possible. But I started to hit you back, and our faces got closer and closer, until you started to kiss me, in the most sloppy way, but I kept going. And then we heard a knock on the window and I turned and saw Lucy’s facial expression, the one I always saw when I knew Lucy was about to call me something along the lines of whore, slut, or “fucking idiot,” and we stopped. And giggled, even though it wasn’t funny that I had just made out with someone I knew was presently with a girl that I, personally, liked. A girl who was, at the time, pretty much an on and off little sister, my favorite of my dumb ass 16 year old sister’s friends. Oops, I remember thinking, crawling back into the back seat, ignoring Lucy yelling at both of us. That won’t happen again, I thought, grinning at you while you turned around to laugh with me in the front seat. And I don’t remember how it started to happen again, but it did, and this time, Lucy and little sis were yelling at us, making me feel kind of bad about being a drunk slut, but this was too funny to pass up. I was in my little sister’s bed, kissing a boy I’d always thought was attractive, but would make for a good story when I woke up the next morning and never talked to him again.
But then you talked to me the next day. You surprised me. You asked to see me again. And it all went downhill from there.
I don’t know if I have a favorite or most cherished memory of you, because I’d rather believe that none of this ever happened. I really wish you wouldn’t have given me a reason to feel even more sorry for myself than I already did. But we kept going. We kept hurting ourselves. I kept setting myself up for the end that I’d always, for four months, anticipated. God damn it, stupid, stupid, boy, I just wish I knew when it was that you really put me at the point of no return.
Maybe it was those few times leading up to Christmas Eve. Maybe it was around new years, when you were really starting to get ridiculous. Maybe it was when I kissed Wade and felt nothing compared to touching you. Maybe it was when I got legitimately freaked out that you hadn’t been around for two days. Or maybe it was when I realized I hadn’t thought about how pathetic I was for more than 24 hours. I don’t know, but we started something. I don’t know how, but we started to confide in each other and spend way too much time together and I went behind my best friend’s backs to be with you as much as I could, because from the start, I was constantly reminded you were happy before I’d come around, or I thought you were, and you could go back to being happy without me in less than a second.
Your smile and laugh started to have a weird effect on me. And I was smiling and laughing all the time. And things were like a rollercoaster for a bit, and then you started to make songs remind me of you. And I started to talk to you a lot when I wasn’t slurring and taking my clothes off and it made me think you might care.
And you started to act like you cared.
And I remember that time you came into my grandparents, drunk off your ass as usual, and you said something and I said I hated you, and you told me you loved me. And I stopped for a second, and told you not to say that, and told you that you were drunk and you didn’t mean it, but you said you really did mean it, and then it started to become an overused phrase. When I questioned where you were and got mad when you’d tell me you’d be at my house later in the night, which usually meant around 3am, you’d tell me you loved me, and it was all fine.
and I hate thinking about this, and i wish i was done with thinking about you completely.
But I’m not.