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Monthly Archives: January 2011

Just think of the lives you could swap with your own
While you’re selling your coats, you’re sewing your own
You know it’s not the easy way


I spent a brief moment of New Year’s Day in hell.

Fresh from New York’s ball dropping, we left my house seeking adventure. Perhaps it was the fact that “Like a G6” was the first song of the year, or that three members of the Backstreet Boys showed up on ABC, but we were all feeling the need to go a little crazy, seek a little fun. Nothing better than feeling old to make a poor girl sing for booze. We knew what we were up against when we left. A house filled with other under-aged drinkers–a house filled with people we both hated and needed to see. People that had lied, whored about, a pot-head, and  one extreme, apathetic couch potato. The latter being the worst person in the room. People that we had known and been friends with, who were all nerds at some point in their life, who had all been destined for greatness before they jumped ship. People one shouldn’t seek out on the first day of the New Year.

But it meant free alcohol, maybe a good time, and definitely some gossip. The house also brought closure.

A sudden waft of smoke and beer creaked under the front door. Darkness and wavering shadows behind the glass in the windows. I had never been here before, heard of it, but had never found it. The door opened to an adult. A mother. She was wasted, hardly recognized us, and I’m sure she didn’t know me. Drunk people make me feel like a ghost. Like a memory barely brazing their attention span… I could say something stupid and she would never remember, never know what I said. It would never impact her.

We grazed by her. My friend knew the way, he’d been to this den before. The stairs were completely dark and we nearly stumbled over the mother’s new play toy. An older man who belonged in a trailer in front of the TV. The smell worsened as we went up. I questioned how these people could afford such a nice house–me being my judgmental self. We went through a bathroom and into a lounge area. Mood lighting, a huge TV, and several wasted individuals milling about. They recognizes us and shouted our names. I caught the tail glimpse of a whore in a short black dress, her neon green tighty-whities showing, making out with a gay friend. Two people sat beside them, edging them on. The only sober individual sat at a computer, ignoring the rest, and a girl I’ve hardly ever seen before, one I didn’t know would be here, sat on the couch, staring off into space.

Everyone worked in their own little orbit, talked to the air, expecting someone to listen. The TV, the gay friend, the whore, the newbie, the sober one–all of them. They all existed on their own plane, all sad creatures who were pretending to have fun. Unlike a real party where people converse, they dance, they laugh, and the connect with one another, these people all sat screaming at themselves. The gay friend continuously made out with different females. The whore sent boob photos to taken men. The sober one checked her Facebook, and the newbie just giggled or talked or did something. All of them were on sinking ships, destined to fail. They clawed at the air, seeking identity, faking happiness, and falling flat on their faces in shame. What fun is it to drink, sit around, and lose yourself in a hole you’ve dug. What fun is it to make yourself question your sexual orientation, or not chat with anyone in the “party room”, what fun is it to exist but not connect. With anyone.

I learned later that the drunk mother had put the house in her daughter’s name, because of her own horrible credit. This means that Mandy, who has dropped out of college, wants to be a photographer (but doesn’t know manual), and feeds on others to survive, will begin her real life with horrible credit if they don’t pay for that house.

I learned later that the gay friend doesn’t know who he is. He is the type of person that latches on to another and steals that identity. He doesn’t even know is sexual orientation. But worse of all, he lies to the friends he’s had for years, and yearns for all the attention he can.

The rest of them, the whole lot of them… they all are not the people I want to be friends with. They are all so confused, and so, clearly, unhappy that I do not want to attach myself to them. I do not want to be anchored to sink. Oh sure, I’d give them help if they wanted it, but they don’t. They want to continue on, partying, fucking up, and digging a grave for themselves. They have no restraint. What’s worse is that I expected a lot out of my friends, I chose them, because I wanted to see them get old. I expected the gay friend to be a millionaire, the couch potato to be a CEO… but they all still have a ways to grow.

The first day I spent of 2011 I went to a friend’s house, seeking fun. I left sober, felt older, and experienced the tranquility of closure.

This year I begin with new friends, expect (better) adventures, and start it knowing that I’m an adult.