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The darkly comical, neurotic, depressing, anti-romantic story of my life. |
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About a Breakdown How did I get to be the way that I am? I guess that's a pretty fucking long story. The obvious counter is, “What way are you now?” Unfortunately, I don't think I can confidently answer that question with any accuracy. Physically speaking, I'm a tall, average-looking college student, skinnier than most but not bony, in bad shape (a consequence of a diet that consists almost exclusively of apathy and beer), with brown hair and browner eyes and a gap between my two front teeth that I'm currently closing with transparent corrective wear. I am sitting on my floor, suddenly compelled to start writing again after four years of writer's block, with a handle of Smirnoff Triple Distilled Vodka on my right, a gallon jug about ten percent full with a massive screwdriver on my left, and a pretty intense urge to blow my brains out in the middle. Sadly, I can't afford a gun, and I don't wanna use a knife and do it wrong. Needless to say, I'm a little drunk, so please excuse my inability to write well. I'm listening to a depressing playlist I made for my iPod consisting of my favorite songs to which one can drink alone. It's called Sunshine and Puppies – I just wanted you to know how hilariously ironic I am. More specifically, I'm listening to Elliott Smith. I heard his name from a friend, downloaded some of his music, and found out I could relate to some of it pretty perfectly. An hour later, another friend told me that he allegedly killed himself at 34. Fuck. I think it's safest to start in the past and work my way toward the present because I'm not classy and creative enough to try anything else. Unfortunately, my long-term memory is complete shit, so we'll see how well I can actually recount the events that made me such a fuck-up. Prepare for the worst story you've ever read, written as averagely as it could be. Angie My sister was the bane of my existence growing up. I have only a few vivid preteen memories, and the first of them is Angie's birth. I remember going into a hospital room where my mom had Angie in her arms, and then being informed that the creature that had just clawed its way out of her vagina was my baby sister. Since the rest of the memories I have from ages 2 to 10 are character-building (read: causing permanent, lasting damage to my confidence and self-esteem), I am inclined to believe that this, too, was such an experience, although I wouldn't know it for a couple years. As soon as she could move of her own accord, she was a pain in my ass. The first good memory I have of her ruining my day for no good reason happened when I was 6 and she was 4. I was climbing on the banister of our stairwell in the house where I was raised for most of my life, minding my own business, when I noticed that she was climbing onto it behind me. I assumed she was trying to follow me up the banister. I was fucking wrong. The little shit decided that she had to be exactly where I was, and since I wasn't moving (because I had no idea what her goal was), she decided to make me move. How, you ask? By biting me as hard as she could on the shoulder so that I started crying and bled everywhere. I would never hit a woman, but my sister does not count. She is the spawn of some evil supernatural creature, sent to teach me that women cannot be trusted, and that all they bring is pain, misery and trouble. The next 10 years were war – we would constantly fight, verbally and physically, and being the younger and arguably more feminine of us, she was adept at winning in the end. For me, a victory in battle would always mean a massive loss when my parents inevitably got involved later. She would break my toys, steal my things, and generally be a complete bitch in an effort to get me to react so that she could prove that she will always defeat me. When I went to college we started getting along better, but we still aren't on the greatest of terms. Perhaps we will be one day, but for now I can only handle her in small doses, like my heroine (just kidding). She no longer has a large role in my life – her purpose has been served. That purpose: to foster a distrust of women and teach me that no matter who is in the right, the winner of an argument will not be rationally chosen. Dave and Susan These two I affectionately refer to as “Dad” and “Mom.” My mom, even before I drank, was always more of a drinking buddy than a mother. I later found out she smoked pot as often as she possibly could without letting it slip to Angie and me. And, of course, there was the alcohol – oh, the alcohol. My mom made a profession out of drinking for the seventeen years I lived with her. I think she smokes more pot and drinks less now that she lives in North Carolina. Then again, I'm only guessing, she might have found a magical way to grow weed in tequila. I talk a lot of shit about my mom, but she definitely loves me, and in that respect she is an utterly unique woman. Without her, I wouldn't even know what it's like to be unconditionally loved by a member of the opposite sex, so, even though it's my mom, I'm counting it, and if you don't want to, you can fuck off. [AUTHOR'S NOTE: I will be using idiomatic phrases and slang that force me to end sentences in prepositions on the regular, so I recommend moving on if it will bother you, because it's not something you can do anything about.] That said, my mother is also one of the dumbest people I know. In her defense, I'm pretty sure she fried her brains completely in the 70's on cocaine and LSD, so it's not like I'm expecting a doctor. But some of the stuff she says and does simply baffles the rest of my family. My mom can be told absolutely anything, and if the information is delivered with a straight face, she will believe it. What's more, my mom has no conversational radar. When I say that, I mean she literally cannot figure out who is actually listening to her or what she says, if anyone, and if someone actually responds to her, there is a critically low chance she will process the person's words and respond to him meaningfully. She is the type of person who believes anything she hears or reads unquestioningly, and then recites what she thinks she knows to be fact for the rest of the room to hear. Whether the room cares what she is saying is irrelevant to her. She could literally talk at someone for an hour, say nothing worthwhile, and require no input to keep going. She defines the phrase, “smoking oneself retarded.” The most my mom ever did to me was smack me across the face when I was ten, which stunned me more than anything ever had up to that point in my life. It wasn't the pain or anything, it was just the realization that words are not enough to get anyone's attention. She wasn't punishing me, she was simply too angry to talk. I think that is one of the events that has helped me stop caring what people believe, because it taught me that I lack the power to change a person's mind with any strategies I'm willing to apply. It wasn't even close to the first time anyone hit me, either, or the last. My dad did some damage when I was a kid. He would turn my ass red if I got out of line in public, and if I had a dime for every time he got more physical than that, I'd have... I don't know, probably only about a dollar, but I could buy some candy. I wasn't abused or anything physically, however, and I'm not trying to say that I was. My parents did the best they knew how to do, and I can't fault them for that. I actually believe a little physical punishment is good for a kid, it will stick with him longer. Unfortunately, my dad's talent was offensively berating people. He was an unhappy man, married to a woman for the wrong reason (my conception), and he had a horrible habit of taking it out on people. He has had four heart attacks since then and has done a lot of growing up, and he is always there when I need him. I wouldn't trade who he is now for the world. When I was young, however, I was annoying, stupid, and a hassle, and he made sure I knew it. If I had a dime for every time he told me what a “worthless fucking idiot” or “god-damned piece of shit” I was, I'd have a lot more candy. If he was pissed about something and I fucked up, I knew it. When you're that age, you just don't realize that someone only calls you a “stupid fucking asshole” because he loves you, and I think the stuff he said to me stuck to my subconscious in a way that can't be undone. He has since apologized and hates himself for fucking me up, and I've forgiven him, even though it's a little late. Maria That bitch. Maria, Part 2 I grew up in a small town with a relatively large population of wealthy people (median family income: $90,000), and my family was not wealthy (my family income: much less than $30,000 until I was just barely 17, when it dropped to half that). Additionally, about 30% of them were Jewish, which meant our public school system was very strong and bred a certain kind of person. Consequently, 90% of the people in my primary schools were arrogant, condescending, and just loved ripping on a kid who was too poor to afford shoes, let alone braces for the epic space between his two front teeth. I was simply too easy, and everyone seemed to know it (welcome to recurring theme number 1). Despite a school full of preps who looked down on a kid in last year's J.C. Penney's, there were a couple people I could stand and I kept them around for a long time. I met Mitch in second grade, and we've been varying degrees of close ever since. Before I met him, however, I met the girl who would set the stage for the rest of my life: Jocelyn. I'm kidding, obviously the chapter is called Maria for a reason. Maria was a cute half-Filipino with long black hair and dark eyes, and she just got cuter as we grew up. We lived down the street from each other for 18 years, and until she got to high school we saw each other almost every day. I was a year behind her, and life got fast for her as she started getting older, while it stayed the same speed for me. I played a lot of video games and spent a lot of time alone as a kid, while she was out giving guys in her league blue balls because she was a typical high school girl who was still into that whole “saving oneself for marriage” hocus pocus. Still, I was the one she confided in, who knew everything there was to know about her and would never judge any decisions she made or beliefs she held, whether I agreed with them or didn't. I was perfect for her, because with my low self-esteem I was just happy to have someone around who seemed to care about me; meanwhile she could use me exactly how she needed to use me, and I would just get over the fact that while I was slowly falling for her, she would never see me like that because I was a loser (welcome to recurring theme number 2). I watched patiently for years as she dated douche after douche, wondering what the hell she saw in them that she didn't seem to see in me, but unwilling to ask. She would come over while between douche bags to whine to me about them, and jokingly ask when we were gonna date and get married, as if the idea of me being with someone was the most hilarious joke in the world. Bitch. Dave and Susan, Part 2 Back then, fighting was the only constant in my house. If I were to make a good bet on something when I woke up, it would be that Mom and Dad would be at each others' throats before the day was over. Her calling him fat and useless, him calling her a dumb cunt, this was my standard afternoon. It made me believe that two people can't be happy together forever. It just wasn't how things worked. There were a few huge fights between my parents that even the dumbest kid couldn't have mistaken for petty couples' quarrels. A few prime examples follow – I call them prime examples because they're some of the only ones I can still remember at 21. Once, when I was about 10, Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, arguing particularly furiously, while I was on the computer (just through the open kitchen doorway on the left). Mom is yelling in her excruciatingly annoying Southern twang, and Dad was just sarcastically responding like he usually did, “Yeah, you're a stupid fucking bitch. Okay, get the fuck out of my face now.” Mom started hitting him and pushing him while he is trying to do dishes and ignore her, until finally he got pissed and came at her to yell in her face. She fell backward into the counter behind her, hurt her thigh on it somehow, and finally stomped away. It wasn't over yet, though. My crazy mom, who had probably earned me a spanking later (the next time I got mouthy with Dad), went to her best friend's house, got high, and took pictures of the bruise above her ass because she had some psychotic notion that she could use it as evidence of abuse if she ever felt like being vengeful and tearing apart her children's worlds. To my knowledge, she still has those damn pictures, 11 years later. Another huge fight between my parents came on the way home from my grandma's house in North Carolina. Mom wouldn't stop complaining and yelling about who-knows-what, and my dad was becoming increasingly pissed about her bullshit, until he took a little blue ceramic basket my mom had had for years and chucked it out the window. She immediately started freaking out about it and crying about how irreplaceable it was. I think I remember the first part of this fight so well because it was the first time I had ever seen my dad do anything just to make my mom upset. A few minutes later my dad got tired of hearing my mom bitch, pulled into the next emergency vehicle turnaround, and headed back toward Durham. When we got there my sister and I sat in the guest room while Mom explained why they were back to my grandma, in as distraught a mood as she could force. My mom was always the drama queen. Meanwhile, my dad joined me in the bedroom and sat on the bed to talk to me about what I wanted him to do. I didn't even understand the question, I was 13. Now, I know they should have divorced when I was five. Back then, I couldn't imagine having divorced parents. It was what happened next, however, that is the second reason I remember this fight so clearly. Tears started welling up in my dad's eyes and watering his beard. I had never seen my dad cry about anything – I had seen him put knives through his fingertips and shrug it off. I had never seen him so openly upset in his life. I didn't really understand it then, but years later I realized that he was crying because he felt like he was hurting us. He wasn't crying because he was upset, he was crying because he so deeply upset his children. The third fight should be pretty obvious: my mom cheated on Pops with my sister's best friend's dad. I was 14. I was dumbstruck. I didn't know how she could do that to my dad or to my sister and me. It was one of the most selfish things I had ever heard of in my life. To this day, I can't understand why a couple doesn't just break up when they are so unhappy with each other that one of them would cheat. In the cheaters of the world's defense, I guess it's a lot easier to imagine that you would be faithful when you're hard-pressed to find people who can stomach sleeping with you, let alone get serious about you, so I can't really relate to them fairly. Things were pretty strained for the last few years they were together after that. I still don't know why they stayed together for so long. When I was barely 17, Dad gave Mom an ultimatum. She needed to stop drinking and smoking so much and be a mom, or she had to get the fuck out. She chose to move to North Carolina and leave us behind. I can't say that I blame her – I might have done the same in her position. I don't talk to her often anymore, once every couple months or so, but not by any fault of hers. She tries to call me all the time; I just don't have the motivation to talk to her these days. It's simply too exhausting. She lived in some redneck meth-addicted town for awhile where her boyfriend beat her twice (beat her once, shame on him; beat her twice, shame on her friends who don't get her the fuck out of there) before she moved to a different city in North Carolina and met her new husband, Ernie. I've never met Ernie, but hearing about him always makes me laugh. First, because his name is Ernie. Second, because he is exactly like my dad – apparently she found a new pushover to frustrate and annoy for 17 years. Maria, Part 3 As I grew up I became more confident, made more friends, and did more with my free time in general. I was still horrible with women, but it was a step in the right direction. At 16, I thought I was actually a pretty cool person, despite the fact that I still got picked on as the white-trash goofy kid at my high school. As I got older I felt more and more strongly about Maria, but I knew better than to try to make anything of it. Eventually, however, I grew up and decided that I was definitely good enough for Maria, and when her boyfriend of a year, Chase, broke up with her and left her devastated, we started talking a lot more for about a month. I was 17 when I decided to try to see where things could go with her if I had some balls. I asked her to go out sometime, just the two of us, to a movie or something. She acted totally receptive to the idea, and for a few weeks played like she was definitely going to go on this strange date with me. To this day, I'm not sure if she thought I was asking her to hang out as a friend or to go on an actual date, but I felt like I was being pretty fucking obvious about it. Whatever the case, she blew me off about 6 times at the last minute as if she didn't give a shit that I couldn't just find something else to do like she apparently could. We finally scheduled lunch and a movie one Saturday – look, I know, I was 17 and awful with women, fuck off – and I showed up at her house to pick her up around 12:30 (the movie we were seeing started at 1:15). I sat on her couch and played with her dog while she got ready, and she took fucking forever. I waited there for over half an hour like some desperate asshole, wondering what was taking so damn long. Finally she came downstairs, and I'll never forget the exchange we had. “You ready to head out?” I asked her, pretending I wasn't annoyed that she took 12 hours to get ready to go on a fucking lunch date. “Actually I'm really sorry, Phil just called and he is babysitting by himself and he wants me to go help him. Can we reschedule?” Phil was a friend of hers who was in my grade, a pretty cool kid actually. Apparently much cooler than me, because she was ditching me to help him babysit after blowing me off repeatedly for weeks. She made it all too obvious how much it mattered to her that we went out together, and how seriously she took it. “Yeah, that's fine, I'll catch you later,” I lied. I was fuming, but I accepted another apology from her and walked out. That was the last time I hung out with her, except for her coming over unannounced to tell my family about her life. I didn't tell her how I felt about her for about 4 years after that. For awhile I hated myself for caring so much about someone who obviously took me for granted, but eventually I got over it. By “got over it,” I mean, of course, that I decided to go to college 560 miles away from home. That bitch. Love Who knows what this word means? I'm sure we've all felt what the English language defines as “love” for another person, but sometimes I wonder if people confuse it with lust – I'm not so arrogant to think I haven't before, or that I never will again. Does everyone who enters into relationships with people believe he or she loves those people, or does one just settle? I have no first hand experience, so my inquiries spawn from the crazed mind of an immature college student on the verge of a nervous breakdown; they are not rhetorical questions I'm about to answer. What usually triggers the emotion of love? Physical attraction, perhaps? I don't know many attractive people who fall in love with notably overweight or ugly people, although I know it has happened before. Some people use the term “spark” to describe that feeling of potential one can feel after meeting another. I like this word. A spark travels from one object to another, because the two objects do not share the same charge. That is an unfortunately fitting analogy for my history with women. In 2nd grade, I like-liked a girl named Allison. It took me a week but I finally mustered up the courage to leave a note on her porch from her “secret admirer.” It didn't take detectives long to figure out who left the note. A week went by, during which I was mocked mercilessly by my cutthroat peers. Finally, I sent her a note telling her I liked her in music class, and asked if she liked me back. She quickly replied, “I hate you!” And so the stage was set for the rest of my life. I am adept at falling for girls who will never see me as “relationship material,” whatever that means, or for girls who “aren't looking for a relationship,” and then a couple months later end up dating someone who isn't me. I have thought about this a lot, and I'm pretty sure the following criteria affect whether I can fall in love with someone. Obviously, there's physical attraction. I am not the pickiest of people (nor do I deserve to be), but it's hard for me to be attracted to someone who weighs more than me (I'm 180-190 lbs, depending on the month), is extremely tall (I'm 6'3'', so girls I don't look down on creep me out), or has some outstanding physical deformity that cannot be overlooked. Other than that, I would really like to believe that I'm more interested in other aspects of a person, although I'm sure I am more shallow than I admit to myself. Admittedly, when I fall for someone, how I feel about her as a person causes her to be very beautiful to me, but she is rarely (read: has never been), the Oxford English Dictionary definition of a “perfect 10.” She is always very attractive, and has great qualities, but my friends never agree that she is quite as amazing as I think she is. There's also conversational compatibility. If I can't talk to someone for hours, I won't become very interested in her. I think it's important to share the same tastes as the person you want, but I believe that it's better to have a variety of interests between the two of you, rather than have the exact same interests; otherwise, there is little room to learn and grow as a person. Also, she has to be at least a little fucked up. I can't relate to normal people who grow up in a comfortable situation with parents who are still together and have just enough money. That upbringing, in my experience, breeds a certain kind of person, one who believes that things happen for a reason, that problems work themselves out in the end, that lasting happiness exists in relationships, and that absolutes define maturity and intelligence. As an aside, I don't know who decided that someone who got good grades and knows useless trivia is smart, whereas a semi driver or a construction worker is stupid; and I don't know who ruled that an immature person dwells, drinks, tells jokes and sleeps around, while a mature person puts issues behind him, works hard, likes art and settles down; but he or she was an absolute genius, and the people who actually bought into these horrid, inaccurate absolutes that define maturity and intelligence were morons. Which doesn't do a good job at all of bringing me to my next critical desire in a potential significant other: sexual compatibility. Anyone who says that a relationship isn't about sex just graduated high school and grew up Christian. It's time for a little quiz: what do you call a relationship where two people care deeply about each other, share intimate secrets, spend inordinate amounts of time together, and don't have sex? The answer, of course, is a friendship. Having sex, or, if you're religious, being somewhat sexual, is the one thing you do in a relationship, but not in a friendship. It literally defines a romantic relationship. If you don't believe that, please reevaluate your life. Sexual compatibility should be a big deal to any couple, although I know people who have stuck around with significant others they didn't hugely enjoy for an extended period of time. While that is their prerogative, I couldn't do it. If I am into someone, we need to move right together – I'm not going to marry an all-tongue, no-lip kisser when I don't personally kiss like Labrador Retriever. A guy who likes normal sex is not going to date a dominatrix. And someone who isn't a fan of fecal matter is not going to stick around forever with someone who prefers anal sex. These are just facts of the universe – sex matters. That said, if I find someone physically attractive (to me), mentally stimulating (fucked up enough to interest me), and who is good in bed (not too wild or too conservative for me), there is a damn good chance I would date her, unless there's some extenuating circumstance (read: she has herpes). Perhaps it's because I'm simply not worthwhile enough to be picky, but I don't understand why anyone requires more than that. Unfortunately, the girls I've loved have wanted something more that I just couldn't deliver, something I can't put my finger on, even now. I know what some readers will be thinking at this point: “Maybe if you had more self-confidence and didn't act like such a Debbie Downer, you might be more impressive to prospective clients.” Obviously, I did not tell most of the girls I pursued (with the exception of the most recent one) the conclusions I've drawn about myself, or how depressed and hopeless I am. It took quite a bit of failure and heartbreak to beat me down to the level I'm at now. I'm well aware that a bummed out pool player with two friends and no self-esteem is not what girls are looking for in a guy – if I had acted like this around the girls who rejected me, it wouldn't be worth writing any of the last twelve paragraphs, because I would know exactly what I was missing when it came to making someone fall for me. Lauren Maria was arguably an infatuation resulting from constant proximity and a lack of options. After Maria, I decided to keep most people at a distance, because it was easier to distrust the world than get hurt by it. Lauren, however, I still think I was truly in love with, and I would do anything for her, even now. The main difference between Maria and the Others, for lack of a better group name, is that Maria used the shit out of me, and had no remorse for it. I don't even know if she realizes she did it, or that she still does it with people she knows today. She might just be that naïve, and I was naïve enough to let it happen. With the Others, the first of whom is Lauren, I learned a hard truth that many people are lucky enough to make it through life without figuring out: sometimes, bad things can happen between good people, for no reason, and it's nobody's fault; it just sucks ass. I can honestly say Lauren handled things as well as she possibly could have, given her position, and I think I did my best, too. This chapter of my shit life begins shortly before I arrived in the faraway land of Atlanta, Georgia, to attend the Georgia Institute of Technology, better known as Georgia Tech. I met Lauren through a Georgia Tech online friend finder for incoming students. I was trying to meet people before I moved to a new state so that I wouldn't be completely friendless. I talked to a few people, but Lauren was one of the few I actually liked. She was very down-to-Earth and aware compared to people our age, and those are traits I would find attractive in anyone. She was smart and funny but she didn't act like she was the shit. It was easy to talk to her about life without worrying about offending her or being seriously judged. She was just a cool girl. Initially we talked online a lot, we would get lunch or dinner occasionally, and I would help her with programming because she struggled with it quite a bit. She would rant to me about how her boyfriend at the time treated her like shit, and I would listen because I was such a great friend, and then on the weekends she would go get drunk with him and I would wander around to frat parties trying to get laid, or shoot pool, a hobby I had picked up right before college. I still didn't drink – I was a little closed-off after Maria, but I wasn't depressed or anything. I was actually a pretty happy person in those days, and so I didn't feel any desire to be in an altered state. I enjoyed thinking and being clear-headed, and honestly had no desire to be fucked up. Freshman year was a long one. I played a lot of pool and video games, went out once in awhile in search of girls, and met a lot of people with whom I'm still friends. Unfortunately I left them all in Georgia, so we're not as close as we used to be, and don't see each other as often as we would like. Lauren and I were friends the whole time, but it wasn't until the summer before my second year that we really got close. I started opening up a little more, and we would talk about very personal things, confide in each other, joke with each other, and talk about how excited we were to be living in the same apartment complex during the coming school year. I think I realized that I was falling for her that summer, but she had a boyfriend, which made it easy to not say the wrong thing and keep our relationship platonic. For the first month or two of our second year, we were tight. We would chill and watch movies, make midnight runs to Wingnuts, or just sit around and talk. Things were really good between us. Then disaster struck – a rumor of her infidelity was started by a member of her boyfriend's fraternity, shit got heated between them, and her boyfriend dropped her like a bad habit. She still claims that she never cheated on Mike, and I believe it; there isn't any reason for her to want me to believe she's faithful in a relationship, so lying about that wouldn't make sense, although it wouldn't be the first or last time I heard someone lie for absolutely no reason. She was pretty upset, and they tried to talk things out for a bit, but in the end he was convinced she was a whore and so he left her. A week later, I was over at her place watching movies as usual. We were cuddling and watching Interview With the Vampire (which, by the way, is a great movie that everyone should see once), when I decided to do one of the stupidest things I have ever done in my life: I kissed her. At first I kissed her once, but she kind of pulled me closer and kissed me back, longer and more deeply. I still remember that feeling – I was so young then, and didn't know what to make of the situation, but somehow I convinced myself that I had actually found someone who felt something for me that I didn't know a girl could feel about me. I didn't try to go farther than kissing because I didn't want to push her after she had just gotten out of such a lengthy relationship, but we did spend most of the next day together, cuddling, kissing, watching TV, just being with each other. I think that was probably the happiest I have ever been in my life. I was so sure that I had stumbled into something truly amazing. It didn't last long. The next day, she messaged me in class. “Luke, you've been a really good friend the last week and I really love the time we spend together, but I don't want to just use you as a rebound boy,” she wrote. “I don't wanna be a rebound boy,” I replied. “I know. I am just not looking to be with anyone like that so soon after Mike. I hope you're not mad.” I was quiet for awhile, then finally, “Okay... I'll get back to you when I get over feeling like I just got hit by a bus.” “Luke, I'm so sorry.” No she wasn't. “It's alright.” No it wasn't. Settling When I am rejected by someone, I immediately blame myself and wonder what I did wrong. I wonder if I should have moved faster, moved slower, said this when I said that, or whether I made any of a number of other mistakes that can be made. I'm always told what a great guy I am, and that I am handsome and smart and will find someone I deserve, et cetera. But I don't believe it. When I am rejected, I am the worst person who ever lived, and it's no wonder nobody could ever love me because I fucking suck – or at least that is my mentality for a short time. It's not the case, though. I think I am a fairly good person, and I'm pretty sure I don't suck. The problem is that I fall for such interesting, cool people that I am far from the only person who realizes it about them. And when it comes down to it, there are too many guys, guys with more game and more stories and more money and better looks, to compete with. The sad truth is that even though I am a good guy, there are tons better, and to ask someone I love to be with me is to ask them to settle for less than they deserve. People settle in relationships all the time. Many of my friends will tell me how mediocre things are in their relationships, how unsatisfied they are, and how they would kill for something better to come along. Unfortunately, I can't seem to let the girls I fall for do the same. Subconsciously I realize that I am not the best they could do, and I think that realization affects my ability to approach them confidently – or at least as confidently as I would need to approach them in order to deceive them into thinking I'm totally worth their time, a skill most of my guy friends have developed that I apparently didn't. As pathetic as it sounds, I honestly just want the people I care about, romantically or otherwise, to be happy, and if that won't be the case if they are with me, I don't want them to settle. It is difficult knowing that the people they usually find to satisfy them do not treat them as well as I would, and I find myself constantly wishing that I might be given a chance with someone I love, someday, even if she is settling. Lauren, Part 2 I was pretty upset that day, and after work I decided I had to talk to Lauren and tell her that I thought we should be together and that I felt more strongly about it than she realized. Forward, I know, but I am horrible at these games, and I didn't know how else to play it. I stopped by her place as soon as I got back to our complex and knocked. She let me in and I asked if we could talk, to which she replied, “Sure.” She led me back to her room so her roommates wouldn't wander into the conversation and I sat down on her bed, she in her computer chair. We talked for an hour or so, and I told her that I thought we could be really great together, and how I felt pretty strongly about her and had for a long time. She repeated that she was sorry, and if she changed her mind now she would be lying to herself, and that she needed to be single for awhile. I stupidly asked her to let me know when she was ready for someone new, to which she honestly replied that she couldn't make that kind of promise. She didn't know when it would be or what would cause her to get over Mike, or how she would feel about me then. She was completely in the right, but it was extremely upsetting to me that she didn't want to be so close to me when I couldn't imagine being too close to her, whether her position was reasonable or wasn't. That night, I convinced her to lay around and watch a movie with me to show that we were still cool. I spent the night again, and I considered kissing her many times, but checked myself. The next morning while we were waking up, I asked her if there was any point that night where she had wanted me to kiss her. She replied, “Once.” Maybe she misunderstood the question, or maybe she was just mumbling and half-asleep, but it gave me a little more hope than was healthy for me to have. A few weeks passed slowly, our great friendship strained by sexual tension and admitted feelings, until one heartbreaking weekend she told me she had a date and was really excited. There I was: in love, listening to the girl I wanted more than anything talk about a guy she could totally see herself with, wishing that guy were me (welcome to recurring theme number 3). I didn't take it well. At the time, I didn't know why it was so easy for her to crush on Cameron and so impossible for her to crush on me. I blocked her screen name, skipped the classes we shared and didn't speak to her for a little over a week. Alcoholism I made some calls shortly after that. “Dude, I need to get shit-faced. Can we go grab some liquor later?” With a little effort, I landed a fifth of Smirnoff Vodka and fifth of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum. I had three of my close friends come over, we opened up the bottles and went to work. I didn't get too wasted, but I definitely drank enough to enjoy myself. It was a lot easier to cope with how things were going in my life when I was drunk, and ever since I have used alcohol to quiet my mind and give myself some liquid comfort. I drink every day, and it is a problem, but it calms me down a little bit. I wasn't as bad when I began drinking at Georgia Tech, but for the last few months I haven't missed a fucking day. I know it is more harmful than it is helpful, but I really can't bring myself to care. Lauren, Part 3 When I finally spoke to Lauren again, she was understandably pissed about how I reacted, but I think it was easy for us to become close again for a few reasons. First, she knew I wouldn't try anything while she was dating someone, so we could be friends without having to worry about accidentally hooking up; second, she realized how upset I was about not being what she was looking for, while I realized that it wasn't fair to be mad at her for knowing that I wasn't what she wanted in a guy. I assumed my former position as close friend and movie-buddy who was given the privilege of listening to all the problems she had with her new boyfriend, and all the ways he could have been better to her. The biggest difference was that on the weekends I would get over her with the help of spritekas and screwdrivers instead of sitting around, clear-headed and depressed, full of desire for everything I thought Lauren and I could be. When I'm drunk it's easier to not give a shit about anything or anyone, and I liked that. I changed a lot in the months that followed. I became less judgmental of the bad habits of others; I became more sarcastic and aggressive, pushing people I didn't like out of my life and surrounding myself only with close friends who I felt I could trust; and I began listening to music and watching movies that I felt I could relate to, because they reminded me that I wasn't in an original situation, and that was somewhat comforting to me. The longer I was in Georgia, the more bummed out I became, and the more I had to drink to shut up my mind. My friends and I would burn through liters of Everclear in a night, getting completely shitty playing things like Drunk Guitar Hero and Liquor Pong (beer pong with mixed drinks instead, generally spiking one cup with a half shot of Everclear if possible), and bitching about how there were no hot girls at Georgia Tech, and how much more fun we would be having at a school like UGA or Emory where there were more options. We were a bunch of fucking retards. There were nights where I would wake up and go to the bathroom to find out someone vomited all over my bathtub. Once I woke up in the middle of the night and pissed all over the base of the bar that separated our living room from our kitchen... in front of my roommate while he was yelling at me to stop. I would say anything to try to sleep with someone, maybe because I wanted to feel close to someone, or perhaps because I wanted to use someone the way I felt I was used. A couple months after my rejection, I began to spend a lot of time thinking about what the point of life was, and whether all of the effort I put into it would ever yield some return on my investment. I began to feel very hopeless, unhappy in my career choice and location, and wishing I could pull myself together. I knew I was fucked up, but I couldn't seem to fix it, so I drank. Over time, I had to accept that I was not going to be happy around Lauren as often as I was, yet unable to hold her and kiss her like I wanted to every second I was with her. That was when I made up my mind to transfer home to Ohio. Mitch had gone to Ohio State University, and I didn't want to have to make entirely new friends at a new school, and all I heard about OSU was how fun and exciting it was to go there – the girls, the partying, the food, everything sounded better than Georgia Tech at the time. Lauren wasn't happy to know I was leaving, and would have been unhappier if she had known I was leaving over her. As far as she knows, I was unhappy because there weren't enough girls at Georgia Tech and I missed my dad, who had already had four heart attacks by the time he turned 49. I couldn't handle Atlanta anymore, however, and she was going to have to deal with that since she didn't want to give us a chance at being more than friends. It wasn't enough to quiet the urges, however, to know that I was leaving soon. More and more often I thought about how easy it would be to kill myself and not have to worry about the hassles that come with being alive ever again. But part of me was, and is, very afraid to die, and I had to do something to prevent myself from doing anything rash. How did I do that, you ask? I got a cat. I had wanted a pet for some time, ever since my badass dog died when I was 18, and I decided that it would be the perfect anchor to this world. Something that depended on me completely to love it, feed it, and give it a home would be good incentive to stick around. I went to the animal shelter many times in search of the perfect kitten, one with the stupidly affectionate behavior I so admired in dogs, who would always be happy to see me and play with me. It wasn't easy to find the perfect animal, and eventually the people at the Atlanta Humane Society knew me by name. But find him I did. His name was Max. When I met him he was three months old, still too young to play on the floor of the shelter, and he was affectionate and clumsy and loveable. After playing with him for a half an hour I put him back into his cage so I could talk to the volunteer about him, but he immediately whipped around and jumped onto my chest. I was smitten. I immediately bought him and took him back to my apartment complex, where Lauren helped me sneak him into my room in a backpack. Max wouldn't fit in a backpack anymore, but he has grown up to be a great cat, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. My last months at Georgia Tech went by rather quickly until the end, and it looked like I would be transferring smoothly to another school where I could hopefully move on, given some separation from what I considered the love of my life that would never have me. But fate had other plans for me. A month or two before I was to leave Atlanta, Cameron broke up with Lauren. I'm not sure why I do what I do when it comes to girls. It seems to be in my nature to fuck up a good thing as wholly as I can manage to fuck it up. I can be almost positive that a girl will never feel any romantic feelings for me, and yet still attempt to make things happen with her, knowing full well that the situation will end badly. My theory is that I do it because I believe that it is the only chance I'll have to feel close to someone I love, even though I know the connection is fake and fleeting. It is worth it to me to sleep with someone I care about and pretend, at least for a few hours, that I am someone a girl could love, even when I know the consequences might be catastrophic. In the end, however, I do what I do and probably always will, and this time was no exception. I was there in a flash to pick up the pieces of Lauren's heart and try to put them back in for her. I didn't want her to feel how I felt, because I knew how miserable it was, and she was better than that. My motives were not absolutely pure, however; I certainly wanted to make her love me in addition to making her feel better, and I only had a month to do so. I wanted to make a lasting impression. I wanted her to realize that she wouldn't be as happy without me. It worked, to an extent, but not before the school year ended. On the day of my last final, I packed up my stuff, got in my car and headed to where she had just moved, a medium-sized one-bedroom apartment away from campus where she had been watching Max for a few days while the RA's for my complex performed room inspections. We told each other how much we would miss each other, I hugged her and kissed her on the cheek, we said our good-byes, and I hauled ass to Ohio, disappointed with my inability to make better use of my last month with her and hoping more than anything that I would find some comfort in a new location the following school year. For the first couple weeks of the summer, we didn't go 12 hours without talking to each other. “I miss you... I can't believe we're not gonna be able to see each other anymore... I wish we were still five minutes apart...” We sounded like two lovers who were imprisoned in different countries. House, M.D., season 4, episode 16. You might know the plot. I was at home watching it in my room, talking to people on the internet, the usual. Toward the end of the episode, it is revealed that Dr. Wilson's girlfriend, Amber, cannot be saved, and she very dramatically dies in Wilson's arms while he cries for her. It was fairly surprising and quite emotional, and the episode leaves you feeling rough at best. She messaged me before I could say anything to her. “Wow.” “House? Yeah, that was fucking intense.” “That was so sad, I can't believe they just killed her off like that.” We bullshitted for a bit about nothing in particular, and then after a short silence, the topic was changed back to the episode. Lauren still hadn't moved on from Cameron, a long wait between boyfriends for her. “I'm really sad about that. It's so depressing knowing that if that happened to me, nobody would feel that kind of pain about losing me.” “Are you kidding right now? People would be fucked up if that happened to you, too.” “Who, my mom and dad? They don't count. It's not the same as having someone outside of your family who loves you so much it would kill them if you weren't around.” “Me. I'd be that fucked up.” I didn't think about it, I just said it. “If something like that happened to you, it would absolutely destroy me. I would not get over that.” “How would you even know? You're in Ohio, you wouldn't find out if something happened to me.” “Bullshit, if I didn't talk to you for a week or two, don't you think I'd get worried and try to figure out where you disappeared to? I would get in touch with your mom and be in Georgia as soon as I found out.” There was a pause where neither of us said anything, and then stupid struck. “You do know how strongly I feel about you, right?” “Not to this extent.” “Well I didn't want to tell you and scare you. What am I supposed to do, tell someone I'm not even in a relationship with that I am madly in love with her and would do absolutely anything to be with her?” “I don't know...” “I don't know either, I'm not good at this. Would it have worked? If you had known that I was in love with you instead of believing that I just wanted to date you casually, would it have affected your decision to turn me down?” “I don't know, maybe. I can't know because that wasn't how it happened.” “Well if I thought I would have had better odds, I would have told you in a second. Do you feel different toward me now that you know?” I asked somewhat rhetorically, expecting her to say no, so my point would be made. “I'm not sure how I feel about you now.” “... that wasn't what I was expecting you to say.” After that things changed between us for a few days. The topic would come up one way or another, and we would talk about how badly we wished we were having those conversations in person rather than online, how we wanted to see each other so badly and talk about it. I know it's hard to believe, since you're only reading my memory of what happened, but I honestly feet that she was just as vocal about wanting to see me as I was, her. Finally, I made up my mind. On the Wednesday after that god damned episode of House aired, I woke up around noon and messaged her. “Do you really wish we could be talking about how we feel in person?” “Of course, this sucks.” “Alright.” I made my AIM status, “Doing one of the stupidest things I have ever done in my life,” packed my shit, got in the car, and headed south. She had to hear it from me in person. I needed her to feel how I felt and make a decision, because I couldn't cancel my transfer to Ohio State if she wasn't going to be with me when I returned to Georgia Tech. A little over eight hours later, I was knocking on her door. I'll never forget the look of surprise on her face. “Oh my god... what the hell are you doing here?” she asked, probably worried that I'd come to murder her. “I had to see you.” “You shouldn't have come here... come in.” We went into her living room and sat on the couch. She turned on the TV, but we spent more time looking at each other than anything else. It probably took five minutes for me to say anything, but finally I spoke. “I wanted to tell you this in person. I... am... in love with you... and I know we should be together.” She put her face in her hands, shaking her head and staring at me like I was crazy. I suppose I am crazy, so I deserved it. She didn't say anything for what seemed like half an hour, but was probably closer to ten minutes. “How do you think I feel?” she finally asked. What kind of question was that? How was the answer not obvious? “I think you feel something for me... I wouldn't have driven all the way to Georgia if I didn't think that.” “It's so much different when we're talking online and you're in Ohio and I'm here. Now that you're here... I see you how I've always seen you.” My heart sank into my stomach, where I am fairly certain it has been slowly dissolving for the last couple years. “That sucks...” I replied shakily. That was all I could think to say. My mind was fried and my heart was as broken as it had ever been before. She told me I could sleep on her couch, and I accepted after a little convincing. Sleeping was not happening, however. I couldn't be in that apartment as a friend. It was driving me out of my mind. Finally I got up and went to her room to tell her I was leaving. She was on her phone with her parents, who were apparently pissed at me. She told them she would call them back and that I was going. “I can't do this. I can't sleep on your couch.” “Don't drive home like this, it's not safe, you've already driven all day.” “I'm sorry, I can't.” I thought for a second about how this was the last time I was going to see her, and then decided to go for it. I moved toward her and kissed her, and she kissed back for a second, then pulled away. “Please, I'm never gonna see you again. Just give me this,” I pleaded. When I said that she came into me hard, pressing me against the edge of her bed, and we shared a long kiss, and then she leaned back and put her hands on my chest. “Now, you need to go.” We started walking toward her door and when she opened it I tried to kiss her one more time. She stopped me forcefully with her hands and said, “Just go.” I floored it out of Atlanta at a hundred miles an hour, then decided I should pull over and calm down if I didn't wanna wreck and die. I slept in my car for 3 or 4 hours, then drove home around 3:00 AM, crying and listening to the same CD on repeat because it was the only one that didn't remind me of her. That was the last time I have ever seen her. Emily Lauren was, and is, a beautiful Southern girl – blonde hair, nice eyes, average height, fair skin, just the right kind of skinny – and part of my problem was that we both knew it. We both knew she could do better than me, and while it would have been wonderful if she had settled, I should have known the outcome to be unlikely at best. Emily was completely different. She is 5'1'' with amazing red hair, fair skin, very lightly freckled (not like that kid in class whose face looked like he was attacked by ants in his sleep), skinny but not starving, and some of the most spectacular eyes I've seen – they are green surrounded by an invading ring of reds and browns that gets thicker in the right light. They're just awesome. My favorite things about her weren't in her looks, however, but in her personality. She was always so happy and trusting and optimistic about everything. She had the best laugh, higher pitched and bubbly, but not even close to annoying. She was great at handling my sarcastic, aggressive humor and I believe she honestly thought I was worthwhile. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, she couldn't bring herself to love me. The best element of her personality, of course, was her incredibly low self-confidence – that's sarcasm, it doesn't translate well onto paper. But she did have low self-esteem and found herself undesirable to the world. All the reassurance I could give her did not seem to make a dent in how she saw herself. Unfortunately, despite feeling as though she couldn't ask for much in a significant other, and despite being upset about being alone for most of her life, she was compelled to wait for the right person to come along, someone who “felt right,” as she put it, and I don't need to give you many guesses to figure out who that was not. I spent the first month after I got back from Georgia waiting for Lauren to talk to me; apparently, driving 600 miles to confess your love to someone pisses her off (again, that was sarcasm, I am all too aware how I upset her). When she finally let me back into her world, I was comfortable venturing out into mine. I immediately started looking for a pool hall on Ohio State Campus, which was about ten minutes away from my dad's house. I needed players my age to shoot, and I figured that would be the best place to find them. Alas, I was dead fucking wrong. I found a bunch of sketchy bars and a pool hall called “Suzi Cue” where the only players were the owner, the bartenders, and a crack-addled black dude named “Butch.” Not surprisingly, Butch was the best of them. Also not surprisingly, he wasn't as good as my friends at Georgia Tech, and it didn't take long for him to stop gambling with me once I got accustomed to the tables. The employees liked me, though, and wanted me on their league teams so I could beat up on people in their honor, and were willing to let me practice for free, so I kept going back. Some weeks I spent almost as much time at Suzi Cue as I did at home. I have since become pretty tight with most of the employees there, and still hang out there pretty regularly, save for the last few weeks when I have lost my motivation to do much of anything. Eventually I wanted to move to campus so that I would have somewhere to live for the length of the school year, and began to hunt for roommates and housing. I met a few people, but eventually settled on filling the third room in an apartment with a guy and a girl, Paul and Ashley. They were really cool, seemed pretty laid back, and had good parties on the weekends, so living with them sounded like a good idea at the time. For the first couple months that I was living with them, I worked very late and usually on weekends, so we didn't get to see each other and chill that often. They joked that they would forget whether I was still living there. Finally, however, I quit my job so I could have some more free time and enjoy my first year at Ohio State a little more. I met Emily at the first party during which I didn't have to bust my ass all night. She was Ashley's best friend, and she was completely wasted. She fucked with me a little bit for never being around, and we talked for a while, and I decided she was cool as hell. I wasn't willing to be close with a single girl who was cool as hell, however, because I had been down that road all too recently, and it ended horribly, so from that night on, I would fuck with Emily mercilessly whenever we were around each other. The stuff I said and did wasn't mean, per se, but it was enough to make her think that I was a dickhead. An important purpose was served by that status: she wouldn't get too close to me, and therefore I wouldn't accidentally get too close to her. Since I worked less, I spent more time with my roommates, and we got along pretty well. It turned out Paul was a bit of a retro gamer, and since I had just switched majors to Computer Science from Computational Media (game design), I could relate. They were both sarcastic and funny, so our personalities meshed pretty well. However, I was still very depressed about Lauren, so I liked to get shitty a little more than they did. I didn't tell anyone why I left Georgia Tech because it upset me to talk about, and so they didn't understand why I went at my substance of choice with such purpose, but eventually they began to figure it out. Another bad habit that slowly started to get to them was my tendency to sleep on the couch. I haven't slept well in beds for years, mainly because it bugs me that I am almost always alone, and so I usually watched TV to distract myself until I passed out in the living room. They mentioned it a few times over the course of the year, but I always assumed they were fucking with me more than they were actually irritated by it. I think we still got along well despite that minor point, however, until I fucked it all up. About three quarters of the way through the year, I hit a wall. I became extremely low about being lonely and the fact that my life was going nowhere good, and I didn't have any healthy outlets for that amount of depression. So, I made the obvious, logical decision and drank every night for a week until my brain stopped bothering me with its shenanigans. Finding me passed out on the regular – a handle of vodka on one side of me, a glass in front of me, and a gallon of orange juice on the other side – did not make them happy. I think they decided I had a problem at that point, although they didn't tell me for some time how they felt about it. We had made plans to live together in a house the following school year, so when I was fixing Ashley's laptop during finals week and Paul messaged her about a girl who said “roomie” that would be perfect for her, I was kind of confused. We already had a full house, so I thought someone had decided not to live with us. I asked Paul about it online a couple days later. “To be honest, Ashley and I have been talking and we don't think we can live with you next year.” “Are you joking?” “No, I don't think things are going to work out. Your drinking is a problem and you sleep in the living room all the time when we have told you not to, and you don't clean up after parties until late in the afternoon when we've already been awake for hours.” I responded as maturely as possible: I slammed my laptop shut and went out drinking. Judgment It's funny how the human mind works. We are naturally inclined to be so judgmental of the actions of others and so excusatory of our own actions and decisions in life. A sober, sexually abstaining freshman sees a drunk girl at a party trying to get fucked. “What a whore,” she says to herself. “I would never act so recklessly regarding the chemicals I put in my body, and the things I do with men before marriage.” Three months go by, and she has been loosened up a little bit by college, she drinks a little bit, occasionally makes out with a guy at a party, does the usual prude college girl thing. “I don't know why I didn't drink a few months ago,” she tells herself. “It didn't seem appropriate, but I suppose it's not so bad. It's legal, after all.” Six months go by, and she is in a relationship. She has sex with her boyfriend for the first time, drunk, and it deceives her into thinking she is in love. “Sex should be something shared between people who are very close to each other. It shouldn't be as trivial as a kiss or a hug.” Two months go by, and he dumps her ass. She drinks to get over it, goes out with friends, and hooks up with a guy who isn't as much of a prude about sex as her ex-boyfriend was. She enjoys it thoroughly. “Why didn't I do this sooner? It's just sex. There is no logical reason why it should be taken more seriously than any other kind of intimate physical activity that people are okay with. People who think sex is some big deal are so ridiculous.” It's sad that most people are so condescending and rude, even when they are quiet about it, toward lifestyles and actions that they don't understand. I will never comprehend why so many people think it is absolutely cool to judge the lives of the people around them, as if they are the supreme decider on what is right and moral and true and important in the universe. I feel like there would be so much less pain in the world if people could realize that two people can look at the exact same thing, have the exact same IQ, understand the exact same evidence, and come to a different conclusion about what they are looking at. Or maybe I'm being judgmental of the judgmental, right now, and the right thing to do is condescend, or perhaps aggressively force your values on the people you know, to save them from their own ignorance. I don't have any way of knowing, but maybe a better man does. Emily, Part 2 I lived on couches and out of my car for a few days. My phone's battery was long dead, making it difficult for me to wake up for work. I was significantly late three times that week as a result, and was consequently shitcanned. I enjoyed my job at the time because it paid nicely and was very laid back, but I was not mad about being fired – it was my own fault and I completely understood my boss's position, even though it sucked. It gave me more free time than I wanted and less money than I needed for the coming summer, but fortunately my dad loves me very much and helped me out with rent and food so that I wouldn't die. When I returned home a few days after the event, Ashley was there, and sat down to talk to me. She told me that everything Paul had said was bullshit, and that she never said she wanted me to move out. I decided to trust her because I felt like Ashley and I were close, and Paul and I had had our differences in the past, so her story seemed probable, or at least possible. I asked her, “Do you want me to stay or do you want me to move out? If you tell me you would prefer that I move out, I will do it.” “I want you to stay.” Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit. Fucking lying, whorish cunt. Ashley had always been the type of girl who talks about people, even her friends, behind their backs. The girl who says one thing to someone and then says something else to you as soon as he or she leaves the room. But for some moronic reason, I never thought she would be that way with me. I thought we were tighter than that – that I was special compared to other people she knew. I should have known better. Paul tried talking to me about what was said before, and I reacted with the deft skills of a master in personal communications: I told him we were no longer cool, and while I would be fine living with him, I no longer considered us friends as I didn't feel that I could trust him. Before we stopped talking, he told me something that I would hear again in my head for months: “I might be an asshole sometimes, but I wouldn't lie about Ashley. This wasn't just me.” I knew he was telling the truth, but I refused to accept it because of what it meant for my living arrangements and my friendships with half of the people I knew at Ohio State. Before Ashley left for the summer, Emily and I started becoming a little closer. She told me that as far as she knew, Ashley loved having me as a roommate and that she felt that blame lay mostly with Paul's scheming. What she didn't know is that Ashley, her best friend, was a scheming bitch who even talked about Emily behind her back. I will repeat that: Ashley talked shit about Emily, her best friend, behind her back... which is just fucked up in my opinion. Since Paul and Ashley had left and I didn't feel comfortable around many of their friends anymore, I spent a lot of time with Emily, Maria (a different Maria, a better friend to her than Ashley could ever be, although she didn't yet realize it), and Mitch. Emily would come over after she got off work and hang out, watch movies, drink a bit, and bullshit with me. And as a few weeks became a couple months, I quickly started to realize that I was becoming too close to her. I convinced myself, however, that Emily was different from Lauren. Mitch had always gotten the vibe that Emily was attracted to me, which may have subconsciously played a role in my conclusion that it could be true. I should have known better (man, if I had $20 for every time I've said that phrase) than to believe that someone could have romantic feelings for me, but I can honestly say that I became absolutely positive that Emily was into me in the same way that I was into her. Obviously, I was wrong. One night when we were drunk and watching movies, smoking a hookah my friend had prepared earlier, I made my move. I turned a shotgun into a kiss, and for a second she was fine – then she became reticent. I apologized after I saw how stunned and confused she was, and she told me I didn't have to be sorry, that she just wasn't sure about things. I backed off for awhile. A movie went by, we eventually ended up drunk and cuddling as we often did, and, because I'm an idiot, I tried again. However, she didn't pull away this time. She kissed back fairly passionately, and I went with it. Emily was a virgin, and didn't like to move too quickly, which I was cool with because when you're that into someone, you will wait. After the first time we fooled around, she told me we should just stay friends, which I pretended I could handle. However, I refused to make the same error that I felt I had made with Lauren. One of the things she told me was that if I had told her how I felt when things had begun between us, it might have affected how she felt about me. With this in mind, I decided to tell Emily exactly how I felt the next time she and I were together. Unsurprisingly, it didn't go well at all. She told me that the feelings I had were completely one-way, and while she thought I was a great friend, she didn't see me “like that.” Then, we slept together. That actually was not sarcasm. We had been drinking, I asked her to let us be close that night, considering we were both single, good friends, and definitely enjoyed the physical parts. She was reluctant for a minute, but as soon as we started kissing she didn't try very hard to stop us from going further. We never had sex, but I will say that things got pretty heated between us. Things progressed like that for some time. We would be just friends for a couple weeks, then we would get wasted, hook up, talk to each other about some of the most personal things two people can talk about – things I would not write for public eyes – and then act like it never happened the next day. We were extremely close. I knew just how to make her feel better, and her simply being around made me happy, so things were really okay. But as time went on, she felt more and more uncomfortable with being friends who fool around once in awhile, until finally she told me that it had to stop because it wasn't what she wanted to be doing. We hooked up that night – sort of “one for the road” - and then we were just extremely close friends. Unfortunately, summer could not last forever, and eventually Ashley had to come back to Columbus for school. She had since decided that she could not stand me, and informed Emily that it made her uncomfortable how close she was to her ex-roommate when she just wanted to forget everything that had happened and move on with her life. You see, about a month into that summer, Ashley told me that things just weren't working out and she wanted me to move out. I was unwilling to do so on such short notice when she had already told me that she definitely wanted to live with me, so I told her, in more polite words, to go fuck herself. She and Paul, however, were not so easily brushed aside. One by one, they convinced the other three people that had planned to live in the house with us that I was a horrible roommate and that they should ask me to find other housing, and one by one they caved, messaging me on the computer to tell me that things would be so much easier if I found somewhere else to live. Finally, Ashley's boyfriend at the time, Jeff, who I thought was going to be my best friend in that house, messaged me. He said that things would be more comfortable for all of them if I weren't there. I later learned from Emily that Ashley forced him to send me the message, but I don't think that makes it forgivable. Either way, that hit me pretty deep, and I gave in. I found a one-bedroom apartment for the upcoming school year. Emily's birthday came shortly after my explosive falling out with Ashley and company, which made it pretty awkward for me to be around. We spent a few hours together on the day of her twenty-first, and then she had to go play with Ashley so that Ashley would not be upset. We agreed (read: she told me) that we would go out the following weekend and get shitty to “truly” celebrate her twenty-first. This was, of course, after I got her some of the most charming gifts I could think of – a series of inside jokes including a cape (because she was a super-bamf), a noisemaker (about two months before this, she had said she really wanted one so she could act particularly obnoxious on her twenty-first), and a badge that read “Howie Feltersnatch.” Her real gift, however, was a street sign with her last name on it that she had told me about months ago. I spent about three hours and made four trips to the sign to rip it down for her, just to make her birthday as amazing as I could. Anyway, now that I'm finished being bitter, we did go out the next weekend and barhopped up and down High St. We made about eight stops that included many shots and beers and two margarita pitchers from a delicious Mexican place on campus. Finally we made our way back to my place where I thought we would pass out and wake up asking each other how the hell we got home. To my surprise, I was wrong. As soon as we lay down on my bed, she climbed on top of me and started kissing me hard. I stopped her and asked her if that was what she really wanted. It had always made her very uncomfortable in the past, and I wasn't trying to create more tension between us. She told me yes, but I decided she was too drunk and moved to my couch, but, like an asshole, I told her to come get me if she really thought she was okay with stuff happening between us. She immediately came into the living room and we fooled around from about 2:00 until 10:00 in the morning. We were never as close after that night, never drank together or watched movies for hours or anything we used to do, and I believe that one moment during the course of that night was at fault. She told me she loved me. Keep in mind, I'm two fingers deep and we're both ass-naked, but she knew I loved her; I had told her more than enough times, and she told me that she did not feel the same way every single one of those times. So why did she say that to me? I don't think I'll ever truly know. Maybe she was just drunk, maybe part of her did love me and she wasn't willing to admit it because her best friend hated me, or maybe it was just that she was coming all over my hand and it felt like the right thing to say at the time. But I immediately stopped what I was doing and looked at her. “What do you mean? As a friend?” She looked like someone who had just accidentally admitted some terrible misdeed. “Are you gonna be mad?” “No, I don't know how to be mad at you.” “Yea.” My heart sank, and I kind of looked away for a minute, but I wasn't about to let that stop us from enjoying that night. It's like Louis C.K. says: you can show a guy a picture of you cutting his mom's head off, and he'll be like, “Oh, you... when I come we're gonna have to have to talk about that picture.” After that she wasn't around as much. She knew it upset Ashley to be close to me and distanced herself, and she would constantly use school or her sorority as an excuse to be apart on the weekends. It slowly broke me down, though, not being able to spend time – even as just a friend – with the girl I loved. A couple months later was Maria's birthday party – Maria II, that is. I had decided to transfer schools again if my grades allowed it, and Emily knew. When she arrived at the party she gave me the coldest shoulder I've ever seen, and eventually I decided to leave early, as Ashley and Jeff were on their way to the party and I didn't feel wanted there in the first place. Maria caught me as I was leaving and asked why I looked so upset, and I told her I felt like she was the only person who wanted me there, that Emily was pissed at me, and that even when she was forced to be around me we were awkward and distant. Then Maria, too wasted to keep her mouth shut, dropped a bomb on me that should have been obvious: Emily didn't want to hang out with me because she felt like whenever we were together, I wanted her, and it made her too uncomfortable. Emily and I had promised that no matter how fucked up things got because of how we felt, we would find a way to stay friends. Needless to say, when I heard this, I was pretty upset. I freaked out, got wasted at Suzi Cue, and drunkenly messaged Emily about how sorry I was that I made her so uncomfortable, and how I would've stepped away if I had known that I made her so unhappy, and how I would let her hang out with her nice, honest friend, Ashley (who Emily had learned in recent months was a piece of shit friend). I was a real dickhead, and I apologized the next day, but she never responded. I think we both accepted that things were just too fucked up around us for our friendship to work out in the end. We wished each other Merry Christmas via text messages last December. That was the last time we spoke. Recovery The knowledge that things could not work out between Emily and me was one of the most devastating realizations I've ever had in my life. I was upset and on the verge of a breakdown for a couple months after that. I would play pool all day and drink myself to sleep at night, trying to get the memories of Emily out of my head. For awhile I fucked a girl by the name of Nicole, but it got me nowhere in recovering. Nicole was a nice girl, and attractive enough, but she was just too naïve and far from damaged enough to interest me. I thought the beliefs she had were the moronic beliefs of a teenager who had never questioned anything in her life, and her optimism and idealism made me nauseous. Still, I went out with friends, drank with the voices in my head until they quieted down, played a lot of pool, and generally kept myself distracted from my depression, save when I was alone. But despite my attempts to fuck people I knew I would not become attached to, keep to myself, and generally push the world away, I made the same mistake again. I let someone in, a girl for whom I am falling hard, and only a few months after everything that happened, it is simply too much. It has made me terrified to go out into the world and meet people because I am worried about how things will end with them, and I am not getting better. I am just drinking more and more, spending more and more time inside, and generally avoiding everyone and everything I can for the sake of holding onto some small amount of sanity. I don't know how badly things will end with her, or how I will take it, and I am fucking horrified to find out. Because this one is not only beautiful and down-to-Earth. She is intelligent, and honest, and self-aware, and fascinating. In other words, she is way out of my league, yet I will inevitably pursue her and be shot down. If I believed in fate, this would be mine. Intermission Hayley has read this story up until this sentence. She does not know that it is not over. I think I started writing this story – without knowing it at the time – because I wanted to document the shitstorm that results from my attachment to a girl. With Maria, Lauren, and Emily, I was moving rapidly through the important scenes, the chunks of time that I could remember clearly enough to reflect on, in an attempt to finish in the present. Now, however, I have reached the present, and I realize that it would be unfair to end the tale here. This story is about a breakdown, and I'm not dead yet. What follows will be more vivid and accurate than anything that I have written so far, because when I write it, it will have recently occurred. I think this will give me the insight that I sought when I began this history of my life; and if not, at least it will be accurate and detailed. Hayley and I have very different histories, but our personalities are the same. We both find undamaged people to be boring and inconsequential. We are apathetic about almost everything except our own apathy, recognizing that it is unhealthy but unable to take action to change it. We avoid genuine condescension, and try not to take out our frustration on people who are not at fault for it. We are self-conscious and believe that we are inadequate. For the first time in my life, I have found someone who responds to my crazy opinions with complementary crazy opinions. We get fucked up to make it through each day, she even more so than me, because our thoughts drive us crazy when we try to take on the world sober. She is the first girl I have ever loved who I've also had sex with. Sure, we were shit-faced, and she gave me the old, “I can't believe I did that, I was so drunk, we're going to pretend that didn't happen,” speech the next day, but it was nice while it lasted. Even when I lost my virginity, it was to someone I didn't give a flying fuck about. Having sex with someone I care about was a nice change. I smoked weed for the first time the day after that, finally deciding to see what the fuss was about. Hayley and I smoked six bowls of highs together, and I have never been so fucked up on anything in my life. I knew I would enjoy pot, which is why I avoided it for so long, but I completely underestimated what it would be like. I was so blazed I couldn't stand heel-to-toe, let alone walk a straight line, and my sense of time was fried. I freaked out a bit when she had to go, mainly because I didn't want to be alone, but overall it was something I could get very into. The one point with Hayley that is breaking me down, other than the whole being-too-afraid-to-confess-my-love-for-her thing, is her infatuation with so many guys who she believes are out of her league. I'm upset that I don't seem to be one of them, but instead of trying to improve, I mope about it and drink alone, and then I vent to her about how worthless I feel. I realize that this is not the best decision, but I am not the brightest tool in the shed, and sometimes I can't help myself. She is very inviting and cannot stress enough that she enjoys talking to me, even when I am upset. I suspect she is only being nice, and I act accordingly when I am sober – unfortunately, Drunk Luke does not have the same restraint, and often times I say things that I should not. I don't know if she realizes I am in love with her, although I think the paragraph before this intermission should have been a pretty big hint. I do not know how many days or weeks it will be until I reach my breaking point and tell her everything, but eventually I will; and the longer I wait, the less certain I am about the outcome. One thing is definite: my breakdown is in progress. Hayley A few weeks have passed since we hooked up, and occasionally I panic and stop talking to her for a day or so, because I am terrified of what I might say. She continues to tell me about everyone she hooks up with or wants to date, which is a little upsetting – as her list of crushes grows, it becomes increasingly likely that I am the only person who is not on it, which is pretty fucking depressing. She has loosened up and had sex with a couple people since me, which was not her modus operandi before. She claimed that she had only had sex with three people in her life a short two months ago. Now she seems eager to expand her horizons. I don't blame her – I would do the same thing if I were more attractive and had the money to spend. Bars are an expensive place to find company. It's difficult wanting her so badly when she only tries to hang out with me in small doses. Perhaps she knows how I feel and is not trying to mislead me. It won't work. I'm not smart enough to pick up on a hint like that. I've started talking to myself (literally) more often. I wonder if I do that every time I am upset about my status with a girl, or if this is the first time. It certainly isn't something I've noticed in the past. Maybe I am schizophrenic. I should drop acid and find out. I've smoked four or five times since Hayley first got me high. As long as I keep smoking and stay high, I am in a phenomenal mood, so it's hard not to smoke weed. I do get somewhat bummed out when I am coming down, but it is better than being sad all night on alcohol. Yesterday, Hayley was trying to get some cocaine for her friend Robert to try. I don't know if she succeeded, but I know she was hanging out at Matt's place. Matt is a really good kid. He comes to Suzi Cue often enough that I've talked to him quite a lot, and although I hear he is a tad flaky, his heart seems to be in the right place. He and Hayley have been friends for about four years, and Hayley has wanted to date him for a long time. She claims that he would never date her, but I am not so sure. I think he feels more strongly about her than he is comfortable admitting to himself. According to Hayley, he becomes very distant whenever they make out or cuddle while drunk, which they have done many times in the past. She thinks he doesn't want a relationship with her and feels bad when they fool around. I think he is scared of a relationship with anyone he would be hurt to lose. That said, while I am jealous of how Hayley sees Matt, I would not be upset if they got together – I think he would take good care of her. Matt is also a major reason that I can't decide with confidence how Hayley feels about me. She claims she can't hang out with anyone too regularly because she gets bored, which is something that I would definitely hear differently if not for Matt. To me, that confession sounds like, “I don't want to hang out with you more than once or twice a week because you don't interest me like that.” However, there are two things that dissuade me from that reading – well, three, but the last one is more subconsciously effective. First, she talks to me almost every night, and I have gotten in the habit of not contacting her until she messages me. Second, she has told me, point blank, that she would date Matt in a heartbeat if he would have her. Despite this, she doesn't hang out with him more than once every week or two. And the third, more obvious reason is that I am crazy about her, and if she simply didn't want to spend time with me, I would have to give up. Mitch Mitch is the only man I have ever fallen in love with – just kidding, this isn't that kind of story. I mentioned him in passing earlier, but Mitch has been a close friend ever since second grade of elementary school. Mitch and I know almost everything there is to know about each other. We've always been there for each other, and other than high school (where we didn't hang out as much), and the couple years I spent in Atlanta (when I was 600 miles away), we've always been really close. Now, each of us is the other's irreplaceable main drinking buddy. We have a funny friendship, as we both consider each other to be one of the coolest people we've ever known. Mitch thinks I've a genius because I do well academically with no effort, and thinks I'm great with people because I have a lot of acquaintances whom I am not very close to. I think he's awesome because he is street smart, people like him, and he is more attractive to women than I will ever be. Each of us thinks he is not as cool as the other. I'm a bit jealous of Mitch, and always have been. He has never been able to stay single for long, and it seems like most of the girls I've introduced him to want to marry the kid. Considering I can't get a sober girl to fuck me, let alone date me, I envy his appeal with girls. Whenever I get invested in a girl, he is always the first one to tell me to go for her, and he always claims that he thinks things will totally work out. He has always been wrong, and maybe he's full of shit, but it's nice to think someone believes I'm good enough for these girls. Mitch is a strong believer in the theory that one regrets the things he does not try, more than the things he does. Talking to someone like that about the girls I fall for puts me in bad situations, without fail, but I still believe that he is right. I think if I had never been as close as I have been to the Others, I would be more depressed about my life than I already am, though there's no way of knowing for sure. But it is comforting to convince myself that I am doing the right thing when I tell someone how I feel about her, whatever the outcome. Comfort My suspicion is that I am an uncomfortable person to be around. Normal people do not handle fucked up people very well. They do not understand that we have heard, or come to realize, all of the advice that they could provide us, or that we don't process the world in the same way they do. I cannot just accept, as some people can, the way things are in the world. I can't be told something and readily believe it like many of the people I meet. The laws of language, relationships, religion, and pretty much every other category of societal beliefs are strange to me. Many people look down on someone who swears regularly, as if he has a weaker vocabulary than someone who doesn't, or he is lazy, or he lacks the creativity to form thoughts without being vulgar. I cannot, for the life of me, grasp this standpoint on language. Words were invented by people to describe the world in an effort to quickly and smoothly communicate thoughts to others. I do not know when people began to decide that some arbitrary combinations of letters were more powerful than the rest, but it seems so ridiculous to me. I can't feel the difference between the questions, “What the fuck?” and, “What the heck?” like most people can. They both deliver the same message in roughly the same amount of time – they even have the same number of letters. In fact, on an English keyboard, when typed using proper technique, heck requires the writer to move just a little more to convey the same message in PG way. It's bullshit. People say that someone who swears a lot is demonstrating linguistic ignorance. I would argue that someone who swears a lot is using language more fully and richly than someone who does not. Fuck and its derivatives are some of the most versatile words in the entire English language. Fuck has forms that serve as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and interjections – not to mention the countless idiomatic phrases it completes. It means many different things and elicits a variety of responses, depending on the context. It truly is a beautiful word, and mastering its usage takes some effort. It takes a creative mind to apply fucks well. There is also an obvious, mathematical reason that it is moronic to believe that someone who uses the word fuck is in possession of a weak vocabulary: using fuck, fucking, and fucker adds three words to your arsenal. Consequently, choosing to expunge fuck from your vocabulary is choosing to have a weaker vocabulary than your theoretical equal who isn't afraid of certain words. The average native speaker of English knows between 10000 and 20000 words. Assuming the number is closer to 20000 for the sake of my next point, and assuming there are 50 unique “swear words” in the English language (obviously, there are more), someone who chooses not to cuss reduces his options by a quarter of a percent. I say, “Fuck that.” My way of speaking is not my only discomforting personality trait to many people. I am far from religious, and do not claim to know what is coming after this life. I cannot even comprehend someone who has never questioned his faith. I accept that most people believe confidently in a higher power, and I would never try to persuade someone to stop. I am genuinely envious of people who “know” what is next. I would kill for their certainty. A friend once told me that she honestly believed that a murdering rapist who repents before his death will go to Heaven, and a good person who doesn't accept Jesus into his heart will go to Hell. I hope she is wrong. I do have a tendency to say what I feel, with little or no regard for who I am offending. I do not mean to do so, but it is in my nature to be honest with people. Honesty should not be confused with openness, however. If someone asks, I will tell her my opinions on a subject, and the logic I used to form those opinions. But I generally will not tell her how I got so fucked up in the head that these are my opinions on the world around me. I think that makes my beliefs particularly awkward: I am a godless heathen with a dirty mouth and I rarely provide an explanation for it on a personal level. Dreaming Last night was a bad night. I was out with Hayley and a couple of her friends, and we were getting shit-faced over a game of Landmines. I had never played it, but it was a pretty good way to force yourself to get drunk with a quarter and a table. Hayley had worked that night, so we had just come from the bar, where I had been furiously pouring shots and screwdrivers down my throat, in part because I was depressed about a situation with a guy Hayley is fucking, and in part because my car had just broken down two hours before that. I handle my problems really well. While we were at the party, Hayley became progressively drunker and began to ask her friend for advice about the guy, who I will refer to as Guy for lack of knowing his name. Guy is leaving in a few weeks for California and is not coming back, which sucks for Hayley because she seems to really like him. It's a problem we both have, I suppose – we pursue people we know we can never have because we enjoy putting ourselves in shitty situations. The last dude she went after was some douche fucking hipster kid who blew her off because she wouldn't sleep with him the first few times they fooled around. She has several other crushes she has mentioned, guys who are not making a move on her or claim to not want her. And then there is Guy, who she has fun with, but who is moving momentarily to a faraway place. It bums me out because I don't like to see her doing that to herself when she could do well if she weren't so romantically self-destructive. That is supposed to be my world, not hers. After she finished talking about Guy, I spent about twenty minutes brooding, then pretended to get a phone call and announced to the apartment that I would be right back. As soon as I was out, I high-tailed it for beer. Unfortunately the two convenience stores closest to my apartment were closed for the night (at 11:00 on a Saturday on Ohio State campus – that's my luck), so I went home and made myself a screwdriver with what vodka I had left. Hayley eventually realized I had bounced and sent me a couple text messages filled with question marks. I told her I was sorry I bounced, and thanked her for inviting me out. “What is your problem, kind of? I mean, what the fuck? If you wanted to leave, you could have said bye...” I apologized again, and she simply replied, “K.” I was drunk and thought she was mad at me, so I told her that I didn't want to have to make up a reason for leaving, to which she predictably replied, “What was the reason?” “Don't worry about it,” I replied. I always tell people not to worry about me, even though I know it makes them worry more. I don't know what else to say. She sent me a sad face, so I replied, “It doesn't matter.” “Does it not? Because if you leave a party without saying bye out of nowhere, it clearly matters to you.” She was right, but what was I supposed to say? I can't just tell her I love her and I hate watching her do what she does to herself by pursuing guys who are causing her pain. “It doesn't matter to anyone but me,” I quickly replied, and I think she missed the text, because she didn't reply for about an hour and a half, and when she did, it was, “Hmm.” I drank myself to sleep, but the night wasn't done kicking my ass yet. By the time I passed out, I was too exhausted to force myself to wake up. One of the main reasons I drink every night is because when I am too sober, I tend to dream about the people I'm trying to forget. Last night, I had that issue on speed. I was shaken awake by someone and looked at the side of my bed to see a girl who I fooled around with once, years ago, and had not seen since. I tried to react, but I drifted back to sleep before I could say anything. I was woken up again, quickly, and looked over to see Maria. That's when I knew I was having a nightmare. I panicked and tried to text Hayley, but could not operate the phone well enough to say anything before I passed out again. Then Nicole woke me up. I continued to freak out but could do nothing about it. Fade out, fade in: Lauren. All I wanted was Hayley. I needed Hayley to be there. Why were all these girls torturing me? Fade out, fade in: another random hook-up. Where was Hayley? Fade out, fade in: Emily. Emily poked and shook me and giggled at me with that beautiful laugh. Before I wrote the intermission to this story, I sent Emily a message online apologizing one more time for everything, and wishing her luck with her new boyfriend. Then I removed her from my friends. Seeing her online every day and being unable to talk to her had become too much. She replied, “I don't know what you're expecting from me, but we will never be friends again. Please don't message me again.” Needless to say, when she appeared in my dream, talking to me, laughing at me, shaking me, I fucking lost it. “Please wake up, please wake up,” I said to myself, trying desperately to pull myself back to consciousness. Finally, I woke up in bed, alone, shaking. I immediately messaged Hayley even though there was no way she would get it until the next day, and then I checked to see if I was actually awake. I don't know what triggered such a vivid, upsetting dream, but I feel like I need something more than alcohol if I want to sleep well. I may start smoking weed more... competitively. Company The next day, I needed to drink almost immediately. I wanted to be fucked up. I was talking to Hayley online, as usual, and I realized that I was becoming progressively more down on myself about my situation with her. Finally I told her I felt myself freaking out and I had to go get some vodka. I don't know why I had to provide details – probably some irresistible, subconscious urge to seek attention and pity. “Luke, what the fuck? Why? Don't withdraw.” “Sorry,” I replied simply. And I was. I get so fucking stupid sometimes. “How about I come over and make you some chicken noodle soup, and you have that instead of alcohol?” Her concern doesn't speak highly of me. You have to be a pretty massive asshole to make other alcoholics concerned about your level of alcoholism. When she offered to come over and try to make me feel better I fucking lost it. I started shaking and crying uncontrollably. “Sorry, I'm a fucking disaster right now, you don't wanna be around me when I am like this.” I shut my laptop, poured myself a drink, and sat down on the floor next to my bed to drink. She text messaged me almost immediately. “Okay, I offered.” Then, again. “I would just come over but I don't want you to get mad.” I replied for some selfish reason. “I would not get mad about that, I am just not worth the time or the energy right now.” “Okay I'm going to the store. Do you have pots?” “Hayley why would you even consider being around me right now?” “You seem like you need some company and some chicken noodle soup.” I just sat there drinking and crying for about ten minutes. Eventually she knocked and I tried to collect myself a little bit so I could answer the door. She came in and I didn't say much at first, so she went to the kitchen to begin cooking for me. “Where are your pots?” “Under the stove. In the oven.” My voice was pretty shaky; I was still choked up. She immediately went to work trying to cheer me up with some videos on the internet while the noodles cooked. I started feeling better pretty quickly, although I was pretty confused. Why is this girl making herself so available? She knows how fucked up I am, she knows I think she's cool as hell, and she knows the if I get attached the situation between us will become completely fucked. There is no reason she should want to risk putting herself through that. We ate quickly, then decided to get some weed before Hayley had to work in a couple hours. We got blazed out of our skulls and just sat around watching videos for a little over an hour. I noticed something, then: for the first time in a week, I was extremely comfortable. I didn't feel compelled to drink, I wasn't upset about my relationship (or lack thereof) with Hayley, I could breathe normally, I didn't feel like I was having an anxiety attack – I was just fine. She went to work and told me to come to the bar later, so I sat around for a couple hours, showered, and headed out. When I got there, Hayley's manager-on-duty (who I am actually pretty close to) was gambling some old guy at 9-ball on the front table. I was a little high and in a good mood, so when the old guy asked if I played, I decided to fuck around a little bit. “I suck ass, but I play. Aren't there usually more balls on the table?” He invited me to gamble with them, and so I “reluctantly” accepted and told him to take it easy on me. I asked him how much he paid for his cue (it was a piece of shit) and he told me it was worth about a hundred and fifty bucks (divided by three, maybe). “A hundred and fifty bucks? That's fucking crazy. Who would pay that much for a stick?” “Yeah, it's worth it though if you play the game.” I am merciless when I meet stupid people. “I think the most I would pay for a cue is like... ten dollars.” My playing cue is about $650 retail. Wes, the manager, couldn't stop laughing behind the poor old guy's back. At first I fucked around with them for a little bit, but I eventually got bored and started running racks. After I ran out one rack and then broke and ran two more in a row, Wes quit. I asked the old guy if he wanted to keep shooting and I discretely gave Wes the five back that I had made off of him so far. Never gamble your bartenders, that's my motto. The guy threw me another ten bucks and quit. Boring stakes, but enough to buy me a couple beers. I shook his hand and we discussed the finer points of why he had no idea what the hell he was talking about when it came to pool or life, and then my focus turned to drinking. I bought a couple shot pitchers and some beers and got shitty. After the bar closed, Hayley and my friend Steve came back to my place to smoke and chill. After we were all fucked up, Steve dropped Hayley off at her place, and Hayley and I went back to bullshitting online. Most of what we talked about was typical wasted conversation material, but I did decide I was annihilated enough to ask her something I was wondering about. “I'm the only guy you've ever hooked up with only once, right?” “Define hooked up.” “Had sex.” “Yeah. Why?” I figured, but I wanted to know. “I just don't know what makes me that type of guy to everyone I know. You're definitely not the only girl I've had sex with who can say that. I am just curious why I am fuckable, but not... you know.” But not datable. “Maybe you're just good at turning good girls bad,” she said, obviously kidding. “Ha, right. Sorry, I'm fucked up. I'll drop it.” “Okay,” she replied, which I think is girl speak for, “Thank god, I really don't want you to say something stupid and awkward.” “I'm gonna hit the sack, I don't wanna give myself time to come down and freak out like last time. Goodnight.” She had passed out. Oh, well. Despite the depressing nature of what I asked her, I was still feeling kind of good. The day had started off looking like it would be complete shit, and Hayley had made it really cool instead. I am going to miss her ability to do that when I fuck up our friendship with my feelings. Still, for as long as I can keep shit to myself without completely breaking down, it will be nice to have some company. Weed I am drunk and blazed right now. I was drunk by 5 o'clock, and at 6 o'clock I got blazed on top of it. Why do I want to be fucked up? Because I have a final tomorrow and I am bummed out about Hayley again. Not only is she banging someone who is leaving town, she fooled around with Matt last night. Why is she so driven to hurt herself over people who she thinks don't want her or whom she can't have? I guess it's not my business. When I am blazed, everything is hilarious. Music is better. I am disoriented, but aware. I talk too much. I make bad decisions. I spell worse (I had to think for about 15 seconds to come up with d-e-c-i-s-i-o-n). My sense of balance is destroyed. My ability to form worthwhile thoughts is lost. In fact, my ability to regulate thoughts is lost. I can't choose to think competently, nor can I opt to quiet my mind. Regardless of what I do, I am bombarded with hundreds of extremely stupid thoughts, the formation of which I am helpless to prevent. Tetrahydrocannabinol is fucking merciless with me. The first time I got high I felt like I was teleporting home. I was so blazed that I was zoning out for half a minute at a time, and then becoming aware just long enough to realize how much farther I had walked. I walked Hayley to her place, and thirty seconds later I text messaged her to find out how long I had been walking for. Before she left my place, she showed me some videos on the internet, and no matter what their subjects were, they were hilarious. I could see a funny distribution of color and die laughing. Once, I thought of a joke that I found to be simply hilarious – I then laughed for two minutes about it on the sidewalk. Standing still. When I stopped laughing, I had already forgotten the joke. I do that a lot when I am high. I felt like my story was getting progressively more depressing and less comical, so I provided that anecdote to add some cheer to the story. What I didn't include was that, as I started coming down, I freaked out about being alone and panicked. Fuck it. It gets me fucked up, and that's what I really need right now: something to fuck me up. Burden I am becoming a burden on the people I love and I am not sure how to handle it. I don't know what I want to do in school because everything seems to bore me – except, perhaps, racing NASCAR or playing professional pool, neither of which am I ever going to do. My dad pays my rent to help out because I don't make a ton of money at my job. I am more than a financial burden, however. I am an emotional burden. Many people have told me that I should seek help, but I don't want it. I talk to myself enough that I don't need to talk to a psychologist. I do feel bad when I bum out everyone I am with, but I am too much of an asshole to do anything about it. Story time. I was going to go barhopping for my first legal St. Patty's Day. I am a firm believer in events like that – excuses to get obliterated – so I was actually pretty excited. Before I went to my final, however, Hayley dropped this bomb. “Luke, listen. If you are going out with us today, you cannot get depressed. You have to fake it. If you come out and get upset and go home it will ruin my day.” St. Patty's Day is her favorite holiday, and it also happened to be her Senior Bar Crawl at Ohio State, which is the day Ohio State seniors barhop to every bar on High St. in the campus area. It goes without saying that I understood her position. Originally, I thought I was going to be fine; but when she asked me that, I realized how easily I could go from sixty to zero. I wasn't stable enough to be out with her on such an important day. I told her I thought it would be best if I stayed home, at which she informed me that it was my call. I repeated my decision and shut my laptop. I tried to study but I was starting to freak out, so I got a beer and a handmade knife that my friend cut for me. I drank and sat on the floor, knife pressed against my wrist, just... thinking about it. It would have been so easy. Too easy. I eventually set the knife down because I'm too much of a pussy to ever go through with anything like that, finished the beer, and took my final. When I returned from my final, I killed ten shots of 100-proof vodka in an hour and passed out for four hours. I woke up around 10:00 in the beginning stages of a hangover headache, so I got water and got weed and got blazed. This has become my life, apparently – I do the school thing and the work thing, then I get fucked up to forget about how much I hate both. I waited a couple hours, then I smoked again and ordered a pizza. About thirty minutes later there was a loud knock on my door. “Fuck, cops,” I said to myself. I opened the door and it was the delivery driver. Sweet. I sat down with the pizza and looked out my window. A huge white van was parked on the street in front of my place. “Fuck, cops!” I thought, until I saw the delivery driver get into the van. It was a pretty intimidating van for a delivery driver. Before I could calm down, someone started pulling on the handle of my locked front door. I looked outside – there was a motorcycle parked illegally in front of my apartment. “Fuck, cops!” I opened the door, and it was worse than cops. It was my dad. He walked in and I told him I was getting high by myself for the second time, which was true. He sat down and we hung out for a minute, but I could feel how disappointed he was that his only son had come so far. Just a few years ago, I didn't drink. Now I am smoking and drinking every day, by myself if necessary. He supports me financially so that I can get drunk and get high and contemplate suicide. How could I be a bigger waste of his effort as a father? I have become a heavy burden on the people around me and I lack the willpower to change that. I really don't know where to go from here. I think I am too scared. I think I am terrified that if I try to get better, if I improve myself as a person so that I am someone of whom others can be proud; and if, having done this, I still get rejected and still do not find the happiness and comfort that I want so badly, it'll kill me. Silence The act of being rejected by someone, to whom you have confessed your feelings, is not the worst part. It is painful, sure; your heart feels like it is sinking into your stomach and a numbing sensation spreads through your body. You feel empty and light. Sometimes I wonder what physically happens to someone when he or she is rejected. I don't think scientists have ever linked a bunch of wires up to someone with the intent of accurately collecting data on the mechanics behind the moment of heartbreak. I would say that, as a result, most of our “knowledge” on it is closer to educated guesswork. In my experience, the worst part of telling someone I am in love with her is the silence that follows. The silence before she responds, the silence after she responds, the quiet conversations had after the fact which are never as lively as they would have been if she had said, “I love you, too.” It is excruciating: knowing that I have just completely ruined my relationship with someone, and that everything will be slowly downhill from there. I found out a few days ago that while I was drinking and smoking by myself, Hayley was hooking up with my friend. I decided I had to tell her how I felt, because that was just too much for me to handle. I didn't get to talk to her until late the next night because she and my friend spent the following day smoking together – apparently they really enjoyed each other's company. I don't have a ton of money. I'm not a Casanova. I'm not the smartest man alive, or the funniest. But the one thing that I could promise Hayley is that nobody would love her more than I do if she would have me. I finally spoke to her about it. I told her everything. If there were a god, and it came to me and told me that Hayley and I could be together, but first offered to change any one thing about her, I would not make use of that option. In my eyes, she cannot be improved. She hasn't told me she doesn't love me, and she hasn't told me she does. I guess she isn't very compelled to clarify, since she knows that I realize my feelings are not reciprocated. We talked about nothing for awhile the other day, and it was nice to see her, but being in love with her and not discussing how she sees me is tough. Silence can cut pretty deep. Actually, I think it's driving me out of my mind. After we hung out, she went out drinking with my friend. I didn't sleep. I couldn't go two minutes without wondering what they were doing. I couldn't close my eyes without imagining my friend holding the girl I want more than anything. I felt worse than I have ever felt in my life. It wasn't that we weren't together – that was difficult, but that, I expected. It was the fact that my friend, not me, was whom she wanted to be with that night. And laying there, knowing that my friend was so much more worthwhile to the girl I loved than I would ever be, strengthened the urges to a new level. I wanted to kill myself so badly that night. Since then, I haven't been able to shake the thought that I am just not cut out for life. I often wonder if the dead are comfortable, or if existence just gets worse after life. Three months ago, I never thought I would be able to go through with it. Now, I am just so close to giving up. I think I need to admit myself somewhere, but I do not have the money and I don't think that it would help me. A part of me wants to detox, but the desire to die becomes completely overwhelming when I am not fucked up. I don't know if I could ever be sober long enough for it to effect a personality change before I did something stupid. Neurosis I'm almost certain that I've lost my damn mind. I just explained my love, as romantically as I could, to the girl whom my friend is hooking up with because I never told either of them how much the other meant to me. Why am I persisting when it's too late? Because I am stupid, I guess. Because I am desperate to make my life a little unhappier, if at all possible, at all times. I knew I shouldn't, but I did anyway, because I am an asshole. The funny thing about being romantic is that when the audience does not see you in the way that you see it, it's just creepy or sad or pathetic. I'm pretty sure I'm neurotic, but it's tough to decide if I'm sick or just unhappy. I guess if I decide I am neurotic, I am, and if I decide I'm not, I'm not. It's quite exhausting to write about stuff that has just happened. I don't know how anyone keeps a diary or anything of that nature. Reading what I am writing does not provide me any clarity of thought. I am only reading what I already know. I should learn to write myself clues that will help me learn what I need to know. After I do that, I can retitle my story, “About a Recovery.” However, then even fewer people would read it. Wow, I can't believe I am going to publish this chapter. Association I believe I have gone from being depressed to completely lacking any stability in a matter of weeks. With that in mind, I put a lot of time into thinking about why I am so broken, and decided that it boils down to whom I associate things with. Maria was fairly inconsequential – she took me for granted and it was easy to get over her, because I was pissed at her; however, Lauren, Emily and Hayley never did anything wrong. Each girl handled the situation in which she found herself as well as she knew how, and, because there can be no reasonable ill will on my part, I can't stop caring about any of them. When you really let yourself fall for someone, you can't help thinking about her. I am constantly reminded of everything that has happened between me and the Others – as a whole, they are related to every part of my life. I wake up and open my laptop, and I see Lauren and Hayley online. I drive by the wrong restaurant, and I think about how Lauren introduced me to it. I watch one of my favorite movies to clear my head, and I can't help but remember showing it to Emily last summer. I listen to music to forget about everything, and I wonder what Hayley is listening to (music is huge to her). I drink, and I think about why I am the way I am. I smoke weed, and I wonder whether Hayley and Steve are smoking together at the same moment. I see shapes that passengers made in the condensation on the windows of my car, and I remember Lauren writing something on my windshield as we held hands and drove to a Chick-Fil-A. I go to my favorite Subway, and it occurs to me that Hayley's ex used to work for the attached gas station. I look at a pool table, and I imagine Wes asking me when I am gonna get with Hayley. I play with my younger cat, and remember buying her with Emily not long ago. I look at Max and remember Lauren helping me sneak him into my apartment. I go to a new bar to try to meet new people, and I think about Suzi Cue and wonder if Hayley and Steve are about to leave together. I can't handle the constant association of every element in my life with sadness. I don't know what to do about that. I don't think that will ever go away. To be honest, asking Hayley to be with me – genuinely asking her, as opposed to just telling her how I feel without requesting a response – would not be fair to her. I am simply not fit to be around anyone right now. I have to admit, though: it would be nice, to know what it's like to have someone to hold at night, and to know that I am as big a part of her life as she is mine. ==WORK IN PROGRESS== |
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