Have you ever had that sensation after a drink too many that life itself appears to be evaporating around you? That point of introspection when the veneer that absolves one from objectivity to themselves dissipates and you see your own antics for their futility why do I keep doing this to myself? What do I have to gain from all these stupid parties? I mean really, it’s as if fun is… what even? how many swigs did I? He-he-ha I’m so loose, Jesus Christ i’m fucked up. Fuck, I took the Lord’s name in vain! Wait, why the fuck?- I’m not religious! Am I? What even is this? Where am I? Coherent thought depreciates to desultory raving, time hastens whilst the senses dawdle paradoxically. The beating of your heart pulsates in harmony to the bouncing of the vision despite being stationary Fuck’s that over there? Get off my car cunt! Wait, I don’t have a car… Then how did I get here? 399Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXXOzhDnNV3
Such states of mind leave the world so transparent that perception does not alter but more accurately withers away. In fact, it took, what from my contorted sense of time, I assume to be ten minutes, but was more likely forty, before I could deduce that everything seemed so askew because my face was pressed against the grass and I was as a matter of fact collapsed. The sensations of its roughness against my skin and my own equilibrium both so deadened that I could not immediately tell my own orientation. My mind was now so laboured by intoxication that to attain an accurate mental faculty it must become the forefront of my attention; to hear, I must go without seeing, to see, I must go without hearing, to feel, I must contemplate nothing. Movement is now a multiple step process, decide upon my method of raising my head, then upon how I will support myself, then how precisely I intend to stand, then execute these steps as best as I can, on your marks, ready and go! 399Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSveNXRa1Bn
Sound drowns to a murmur and some momentary subsidence occurs in the undulating of my vision, I feel my skull hovering ever so slightly from the ground as the almighty mule kick of feeling returns to my head and I soon realise that this is not a psychoactive sensation of levitation but is more of a floatation on a grotesque bed of my own sick. The revolting surprise jolts me to my feet quicker than I intended and I neglect the severity of my own enbreation, lurching straight from my feet into a sideways single-legged stumble into a gutter pipe with a wince-inducing ‘wham!’. The blackout inflicted redacted my memory like tape yanked from a cassette.
But what got me here you ask? Well between, the transitional blackouts lies some semblances of coherent mosaic, we begin at approximately ten o'clock, the time at which the aurora of street lights enkindles the shadowy streets that are now the playground of the rambunctious and the sinister. You could say the party had commenced at least two hours prior however the grips of awkwardness had left many a sullen silence, scattered circles with intermissions of the coughs and sighs of silent searches for conversation between sips of the night’s lighter starters. I’ve never been much of statistician but it would be fair to say that their is a correlation between the inclination of booze intake a declination in boring personalities, see with exception to some discoordination and a lessened sense of shame, my drunken self is and always has been my regular self with a few additives to aggressive tendencies and abhorrent sexual shamelessness. In truth, my anxious reservation is a trait I keep concealed from my classmates and indeed myself and it often seemed it’s only antidote was self-destructive intoxication which my oblivious cohort took as a sign being a “sickcunt” this ofcourse mean’t as a back-handed compliment, the presumption that my disregard for my own personal health was somehow as assertion of dominance was common misconception among the primordial specimens I often found myself in the displeasurable company of in the pursuit of a sufficiently reckless weekend.
The macho had drowned their minute good sense in a frothing monsoon of beer and dissolved it’s remains in potent spirits, leaving their sensitive egos free to guide their actions, testosterone crazed fisticuffs would be sure to arise at any given moment. The bimbos had become overcome with their franticness to suppress their body-image issues by giving themselves away to said macho men in a manner sure to do their fathers proud. The hood rats had taken to default mode strikingly similar to the jocky jackasses with one key distinction, if you found yourself in their crosshairs you actually were in very real danger of harm beyond being assailed by an antagonizing grunt and a staunch, wide-shouldered, puff chested display, instead the display you were about to receive would be multiple puncture wounds to the abdomen and cranial fractures and this if you only gave cause to just one of them.
Kevin himself, the slickened haired, undernourished, furless meerkat of a suburban sex pest was circulating his lounge, Speight’s le in hand demonstrating his exceptional “how you doin?” lean to any girl left unattended for longer than a minute’s duration. This went ignored for some time until he unbeknowingly tried this maneuver on Miriana Teapo, the niece of Dirty Harry, and no she was of no relation to Clint Eastwood, this was a far more ferocious Harry, Harry Teapo, the figurehead of your one-stop, meth shop and bone-breakage service on Greenwich st. He only came to the realisation of just how small a man he was when utter silence filled the room the moment he applied his pungent sleaziness to her and received the gut-wrenching anal-clenching death stare of a hardened prisoner sizing up the fresh meat instead of the blush-faced giggle he was more accustomed to.
The six of us, Owen, Tangi, Myself, Leon, and Adrian and Haruka welded at the hip, leaned in row across the stripped and cratered beige wall of the kitchen of Kevin’s flat agglutinated between N.W.A booming from the lounge and black metal roaring room the patio from the gothic, outnumbered and therefore outcasted from the interior of the house, the two melodies converging into white noise so deafening conversation was impossible. Depending who you asked and from which angle we looked like a slightly off impersonation of either a police lineup or an album cover, or perhaps both. 399Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuz7D46w61L
Adrian and Haruka after quite the awkward tango of “Ummm” and “Soo…” were now irretrievable from the gaze of each other. Owen was engaged in a battle of gullets with Tangi as to who could endure the urge to vomit through a barrage of sculled drinks and stomach punches “Chugg, chugg, chugg, gulp it you shrivelled-balled bitch!” Owen hollered like an alcoholic drill sergeant, Tangi relinquished his profuse gulping and began to spasm in the gut “...or sip it! Whatever you please m’lady!” Owen mocked bellicosely. Tangi was no man to be mocked without resistance, he retained his drink and tensed for the incoming blow, flinching but refusing defeat, he roared and belched like a warrior standing amidst fallen foes. Their competitive natures clashed by the sharp edge constantly, perhaps it was surreptitious vendetta held for getting far too involved in one another’s family or perhaps their braudy natures just conveyed affection peculiarly, but put the two at odds in any contest and it’s assured to me more tension than a boxing weigh-in.Owen snapped back into a lean prime for limbo and essentially waterboarded himself in bottled lager, relenting to the torture half a bottle down. Tangi took the place as the verbally degrading coach pestered Owen back to his feet “Come on! Your mum chugs harder than y…” his mouth expelled the sentence long before his head took any notice of the double entendre, he apologetically back-stepped with open hands raised. His face sharpened and teeth gritted like stone Owen softly snarled “chugs what!!!???”, “Maori Nut Milk!” Leon interjected with a boyhood smile. 399Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTVihNP4vMr
At that very moment, he came face to face with doom itself, it’s fiery jaws raised and apt to bite. Not being one for violence he adopted a poor attempt a boxer’s stance and closed his eyes for oncoming train collision that is the Owen Fielding Haymaker, the very same blow that earned him the prize of expulsion from the ever-so pompous Sir Rutherford private academy with an arm swing for the ages lifting a cocaine-crazy lawyer’s son clean off his feet. In a stylistic traffic warden’s hand wave and a panicked swerve he unpocketed his long awaited main event of the night which we had reserved for a time we would be least likely have to defend it, a dime bag bursting at the seams with only the finest ganja “Cone?” a simple phrase that all but quashed Owen’s imperiling fury. And at such a time, who could say no? In a manner that could not look any more suspicious we ducked through the hallway in coversion and crammed ourselves into the bathroom at Leon’s behest, the party goers showing little regard for our whereabouts. Leon secured the room with the paranoia of a fugitive in hiding, thoroughly forcing the deadbolt lock, ensuring the windows were sealed and jamming out the draft with a towel.
It’s not unlike Owen to project his own disreputable behaviour onto others but I myself took little joy in it, I already felt at odds with the expectations upon myself in my daily routine and it would be hypocritical of me to insist that others fall in the line of what social normativity defined as “fun” but I could always take solace in the one idol I placed any worship in and that was the bosom of Mary Jane. She was a temptress loved by Leon most of all but was a love I delighted in sharing unto others, Adrian and Haruka’s clear reluctance I seen as a challenge to conquer for their own benefit if anything. “Mike, are you sure we should let Haruka do this?” Adrian said with predictable reprehension “You see the plug there…?” I pointed towards the bath “Shove it!” I exclaimed gagging on my own finger in a playful snark “she’s a big girl. Haruka, do you want in on this or not? It’s fine if you don’t…” With the decision put to her, she stuttered over the choice but with a certain flare of freedom in her expression, being drunk for the first time in what must've been at least a year, she had torn free from her tethers of social dread and needless concern for fictitious consequences, simply brazen unadulterated Her, an inner joyous child momentarily liberated. “I… I’m not really sure, but i’ll give it a try. You do this a lot right? Is it safe?”. I nodded with the comforting wisdom of experience, and with that her allegiance to this bizarre bathroom stoner sect was sworn. Leon laid toilet paper down in the centre of the room and torn the bag over it ritualistically.
Suspense traded itself for frustration as he fumbled with his flickering disposable lighter before Adrain made substitute with his silver-plated zippo engraved with the winged dagger of the S.A.S, his father’s cherished relic of former service, Christ he’s full of surprises, I swear if he actually pops those pills i’m calling bullshit. With but a single spark, euphoric mist phantomly swallows the room, Leon recoils in a rush of satisfaction like a pet to its food bowl, I and my brethren seemed to almost deflate in blissful inhalation and as they shared a cramped mildew-ridden linoleum with four degenerates, our stammering puppies in love joined hands and laid rest upon each other’s shoulders.
We came to a point of silence in the vein of moment of reflection at your typical memorial, solemn but blissful, a moving reminder of the intricacies of life’s balance of tragedy and joyousness danced before my eyes in the beauteous mist that shrouded the room and watered my eyes in irritation. To the stricken by sobriety, it was but the mere smoke of the burning of a highly sought anomalus herb, but to me I found meaning in it like an apparition whispering me sweet nothings, perhaps a Schizophrenic break, perhaps the brief opening of this “third eye” of which Leon often spoke of so faithfully. I can only presume my compatriots shared the same mirages as I did as they were, to the observer, in placid comatose.
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In a great startle to the liquored up mouth breather who had must have been awaiting an opportunity to piss for quite some time, A shrouded being of unkempt, stench-ridden raggedness strided a cloud of smoke out from the toilet, obscured in it so immensely he appeared ethereal, dissolving into it. This stooped drunkard leapt like a surprised feline before the figure’s face demystified to reveal the doltish grin of the glazed eyed Leon Read “Hey man, what’s good?”. This poorly confused fellow snapped himself out of cowardice and played off his embarrassment with a snide snigger and barged his way past Leon and myself encroaching behind him only to obliviously collide with the pectoral of the equally oblivious Owen Fielding, occupying the doorway, at which point he thought his options better favored resorting to the prehistoric approach to toilet habits and bolted down the hallway as if being pursued by an assailant none of us could see. Seemed a curious thing how pronouncedly avoidable Owen was a person, not any repulsion of his character but reluctance to confront his imposing stature left even the most brawny of men to cross the street should they catch an uninviting glimmer in his eye.
We assembled in V formation like a dysfunctional team of discount superheroes come to save citizens in need of failing their drug test, I imagine our name would be something like “The Wasted League” or “The Sloshed Six”, I know, poorly conceived, but after all I am no comic book author “Actually, wait… Six? I count four, those two are lagging behind again” with them having shared a majestic experience with us it would seem hollow to leave my two novices be now. I returned down the hallway to retrace my steps, my detective skills in full play, what I was not expecting, however, was to stumble upon them in full play of their own. Creaking open the door sufficient enough to peer in, impelled by the indistinct ruckus, their before my vulnerable eyes were the two locked in a drunken novice’s snog that resembled cannibalism more than passion, Adrain having already laid bare the bust of the ages Haruka possessed “okaaaay... best not say, you two kids have fun.” Despite having caught glimpse of Haruka from an angle I can only envy Adrian for being so intimate with, to quite the contrary I felt a churning in my stomach like an angry house pet biting the bars of it’s cage “Alert! Make way for imminent projectile vomiting” I dashed towards the front door with such briskness I was not at all halted by clipping the dense oak table on my path out and surfed atop it by my torso like a drunken penguin and miraculously transitioned into a barrel roll to savor a pleasant landing. I slide to my knees agonisingly in the gravelled clearing and retched forth a tremendous stream of grossness and took a moment to reflect upon it, the searing burn still in my throat and my dignity I take a calming moment to check my phone which I had neglected completely by somewhere between the fifth beer and the third shot of whiskey.
At first staring blankly just as the indoctrinated Wi-Fi zombies of the decade do I I shudder in shock, sick still dribbling from my lips like the most disgusting Doberman you’ll ever see I shake my head, seventeen consecutive unread messages from a private number. “You think you can fix everything with your god damn jokes and wits don’t you? You crack a joke and call me some shit and all of a fucking sudden you act like you’ve done something worth shit and walk around all smug like you’ve solved something.” right, hurtful but not inaccurate kind stranger, what’s your point? They continued “I know you think i’m probably just another little bitch with problems that mean nothing but if you understood half the shit I suffer through every single day you would know why i’m going to to do this” do what? And just send one fucking text for the love of God “I’m only telling you this because I want to scream it to someone why I wound up in a river like the waste everyone thinks I am. I know you never seemed like you cared, in fact you probably don’t but at least pay enough attention to someone who doesn’t have tits long enough to read what he’s got to say”
They progressed gradiently in aggravation as they sent without reply repeatedly “I’m a stuttering shit that shows up and doesn’t say a word because nobody has the patience to put up with my babbles to trying to form a fucking sentence, then I get home and the animal that beat that stutter into me in the first place greets me with a right hook straight out of his washed-up boxing days and kicks me till my stomach’s a bruised bloat and has the nerve to hit me again for not keeping my food down afterwards, sick bastard gets a joy out of beating me enough to find an excuse to beat me again.” Jesus! Do you ever start with ‘Hello’? At this point I was no longer simply making sense of ordered pixels, there was a certain moroseness in the manner of its words, the frequent errors of clarity left me with the inkling that it was typed through tears. “Is it too much for me to ask that someone love me? That somebody could think of me besides the asshole that’s getting his kicks out of terrorising me. I don’t know whether I deserve it but at this point, all I want is for this to end” My eyes widened, as my sluggish wit, at last, slapped me with the thought a sober man would find all too obvious Joseph! my God, this was him the whole time? He’s at that of ending it and now he’s clutching for reasons not to call it quits My desperation to preserve this poor soul’s life overcame me with the tremendous dread what if i’m too late? I fumbled in a drunken panic to call the number I presumed he’d received long ago in a time he may have mistaken me a friend, what a repugnant person I had been to disregard people with such impunity and assume the inferiority of others to me with such zeal.
All my senses falter in the eerie unending dialtone of the torturous unanswered ringing. I recurred a habit I thought long dead, clutching the pants of my knees and rocking steadily in the dark that seemed to encroach me, the silence of that solemn clearing broken only by the ringing in my ears. Was it that damnable tone against my ear or the white noise of the blaring anthems that left that incessant resonance in my skull? No. It was that low pitch whine, a bone-chilling whine like that of feline in distress which whistled from my own lips, my shock leaving me in catatonia so beyond the bounds of my body that I did not recognise the squeal of terror of my own body. With each denial of answer I was granted I became ever more pitiful Please. No answer Please. No answer Please… No damned answer. There it was, the answer I shuddered of given to me by a lack thereof answers. I’m certain I am not alone in that phantom one experiences when stricken with guilt, it feels as if the stranglehold of an apparition it’s clutching at your heart, it’s constricting and suffocating, the pressure of a wrongdoing pressing itself against your chest, it truly is agony most unbearable and incurable no matter your dosage.
As I continued to rock as if beyond my control, anger flushed me in an aura of blushing red and I stormed back inside in defeat, taking in my hand the boldest of liquors I could suffice and proceeded to assault myself. No longer did I indulge, all I felt was immeasurable pain I desired to kill. I chugged for my life through the searing agony in my throat and stirring, ripping ache in my gut. Presumably indisposed by the joys of the night, or perhaps having partook in the tablets Adrian had sourced which we held the verdict as being Molly, my cohort was nowhere to be found to my bottle from it’s fierce downward pour for which I received praise by some blithering half-wit. I hurled the bottle at him as I finished, he ducked under the table and cautiously peered from beneath it in dismay. Not wishing to lay any further harm I made my retreat back from whence I came. Still in shock, I falsely proceeded back towards the clearing, the opposite way to my intended route of escape. And at that moment I was bludgeoned with the dastardly hammer of a drunken blackout, which brings me to the wretched state of which I found myself when I began to recite to you this truly shameful evening, the cusp of my later falters which would bring me only but further disgrace. Reader be warned, I hold no desire to humour you any longer. 399Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmSJsPapaXB
