DAY 23.

There are two drunk girls from three towns over barricaded in one bathroom stall. One of them is slapping the other in the face, making her stay awake. That girl might pass out on the toilet. That’s what we hear anyway from their mutual friend. She’s giving us a running commentary of the events as she stands next to the sink. They drove forty-five minutes to go to this bar. One of those girls had a blind date with some guy who lives in town.

We are in line for the bathroom. We’d never drive forty-five minutes anywhere if our night was to end here. There are only three stalls. They are all occupied. If there was a 10th circle of hell, this would be ours. Dante couldn’t have written it any better.

We all stand, the six of us, watching in horror. Waiting. Nothing like a Friday night in a crowded bar. The bass is thudding and the walls shake. We don’t lean against them. We try not to, anyway.

“Becky, wake up!” the one girl screams from inside the stall. Someone is snapping their gum next to us. We can hear it popping and she chews on it with her mouth open. One of the bathroom doors doesn’t lock. Another girl’s friend stands holding it closed. She looks bored out of her mind. She is texting someone on her phone.

“If I don’t get laid tonight, I’m gonna go order some of those cheese cubes at the Corner Grill,” a different girl says to her friend as they wash their hands at the sink.

“I thought Josh wanted you to lose weight,” her friend responds.

We all smush closer to each other. The door keeps opening and more people spill in. Our bodies are warm and shiny with sweat. Most of us in here are drunk. There is a slight feeling of camaraderie as we all wait in line. The toilet paper has run out. People are using paper towels. Receipts from the bar. Whatever they can find. Cheers erupt when the two girls from out of town stumble out of their stall.

“Take me home,” says the girl who isn’t Becky. Her makeup is streaked on her face. She was crying. One of us gets beer sloshed on our t-shirt. One of us is in the process of breaking up with our boyfriend. Another one of us could really use a cigarette. We try to avoid puddles of piss. We don’t want to touch the door handles.

When we finally emerge from the bathroom, we feel like we’ve been released from prison. Everything outside is so vibrant. It’s ladies night. We all drink for free.

Tags: alcohol, bars, bathrooms, claustrophobia, college, frustration, youth

DAY 22.

But there you go for the last time
I finally know now what I should have known then
That I could still be ruthless if you let me
But there you go and I’m not done
You’re waving goodbye, well at least you’re having fun
The rising tide will not let you forget me

:::SOMETHING CORPORATE -RUTHLESS:::

_______________________________________________

We bruise when we fall. There are scars on our hearts. They fester and darken in color until they turn to black. We get our hopes up, only to be let down in the most terrible ways. We say we won’t make the same mistakes twice, and then we do. We forget who we are. We look in the mirrors and see the same reflections as always, but we can’t recognize who we are looking at. We dare to hope. We get that tiny bubble of excitement in the pits of our stomachs. We smile. We are overeager.

We feel alone. We walk around like ghosts. We do things we know are wrong. We don’t know why we do the things we do. We can’t stop. There is a pattern here that seems to be unavoidable. We are cautious. We are guarded. We give ourselves away like it’s the easiest thing in the world. We feign indifference. We pretend to be comfortable. We say words we don’t mean. We are utterly confused all the time.

We cry in our rooms at night. The truth is always the hardest thing to swallow. We disregard the advice we are given. Those words go in one ear and out the other. We want to be happy. We aren’t sure how to be happy. We settle. We settle more often than we’d care to admit. We care too much. We don’t care enough about ourselves. We are warped. We want to be worthy of something good. We want to feel safe. We hate when you don’t call.

We feel things too strongly. We feel so much that we wish we were numb. We drink away our problems. We talk around the bigger issues. We can’t admit things to ourselves. The things we hate about our bodies. We put on brave faces. We sit and keep our heads down. We stay quiet. We bite our tongues and draw blood. The taste is metallic in our mouths. We crave the feeling of having someone next to us. Our hands trace over the cold sides of our beds. We remember too much.

We get used sometimes. We make ourselves sick with worry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t what we ever wanted. We feel ashamed. We know we can say no. We know we can make our own decisions. We let these things happen to us. We get ourselves into these situations. We don’t know how to get out. We want someone to understand. We want someone to listen. We need someone to care. Our excuses sound tired to our ears. We are stronger than we believe. We read books. We watch movies. We lose ourselves in the unreal. It’s easier.

We’d like to give up. Some days, we seriously consider it. We bury our heads in our hands. We turn our stereos on too loud. We drown out all thought and replace it with music. The songs and the lyrics scream the things we dare not say. We lay on our carpets and stare up at ceilings. We try to remember when we were younger. When we were uncomplicated. When life made so much more sense. We wish things were cut and dry. We wish we didn’t get our hopes up. We wish a lot of things.

Tags: depression, fears, frustration, insanity, insecurities, loneliness, pessimism, reality, regret, sanity

DAY 21.

It’s a long walk, but they split a Coke along the way. The bottle is filled a quarter of the way with Coke. The rest is rum. If you shake it up, you can’t tell. It’s pitch black outside. They like the night.

They wince at the first hint of rum. Eventually they get used to it. You can smell it on their breath.

It’s only 9:00 PM. They had to start early. It’s the only way to get through this night. It’s the only way they know how to calm their nerves that bounce around like Pop Rocks in their stomachs. It’s the only way they know how to be more talkative.

Sometimes their throats close up in classrooms. Sometimes they feel like they’ve swallowed a jar of cotton balls. There is the distinct feeling of everyone looking at them. Waiting for them to utter something brilliant.

They never do.

It’s something about the walls. And the close proximity of desks. And maybe it has something to do with just one person. The sheer panic that runs through them if he even looks their way. It’s ridiculous.

They continue walking and talk to each other, because it’s easy. They can do that just fine.

The plastic bottle is passed between them. They pick at the label, tugging at it every so often for something to do. A lone car passes by them. They stop for a second and look around. They aren’t sure if they’re even on the right road. They’re going to a house they’ve never been to. It’s a party with people they don’t know. They were invited by that boy that induces the panic. They’d like to know him more. But these things are hard. They don’t make new friends so quickly.

The street names are unfamiliar now. They turn down a side street, guessing. Their bottle is almost empty. They can’t believe they drank it so fast. But then again, maybe they can. Their conversation rises and falls like waves. Their laughter ricochets off the vinyl siding of the apartment complex to their left. There are a pair of shoes dangling from a telephone wire above their heads. The walk has taken longer than they thought it would.

They walk by the house where the party is at. They pass right by it, knowing full well that it’s the right house. They strategize on a street corner. A heated discussion of who will lead ensues. Neither of them wants to go first. They don’t enjoy breaking the ice. Calling attention to themselves. They quickly swallow the rest of what’s in the bottle. A cat creeps out from beyond a parked car’s back tire. They stare at it as it cautiously approaches them.

Cheers erupt from the side lawn of the party they’re supposed to be at. There is music playing. Someone is singing. Their heartbeats move a little faster. They leave the cat behind, brush right by it. Their feet hit the lawn and they’re spotted. They’re seen. They greet the one person they know. They hope they don’t say anything stupid.

Tags: companionship, fears, friends, nervousness, parties

DAY 20.

She just wanted to make some chicken fingers. She wanted to forget the morning. She wanted to just sit with her chicken fingers and become absorbed in an old television show she used to like. She burnt her hand. Badly. He acted strange around her this morning and she pretended to not notice. But she noticed. Of course she did. How could she not?

She doesn’t fully understand why she’s been reduced to tears, right now. But here she is. Sobbing in her kitchen. She grips the edge of the counter by the sink. Her hand is stinging from the burn. She isn’t crying because it hurts. Well, maybe she is. Just a little. But there are other reasons. She’s crying because of everything else.

The apartment looks the same. Everything is where it should be, in its right place.

The chicken fingers lay forgotten on the pan. The oven hasn’t been turned off yet. There is a too small oven-mitt on the floor. She threw it there out of anger. Sometimes she gets angry. Sometimes she doesn’t know what to do or how to express it, so she throws things. Her cell phone has endured the brunt of this behavior at times. No wonder she had to get a replacement.

She’s still crying. There is a fear that her roommate will walk in soon. Then she’ll have to answer questions like, “Why are you crying?” No one likes to answer those questions. The burn is angry. It’s red. She tries running some cold water on it, but the sink never gets cold enough. She grabs a bottle of vodka out of the freezer. This will do.

This is not the first time she’s cried in this apartment. No, just a few days ago, she cried in the shower. She wasn’t sure it was happening at first. It’s easy to mistake tears and shower mist. When she felt her body collapse in on itself, that’s when she knew. Her palm slipped against the cruddy tile of the bathtub. She hoped she wouldn’t fall and get a concussion. How embarrassing, to have to have someone come in and find you naked. Crying. Concussed.

Her shampoo was running down her face and burning her eyes. It just made her cry more.

Nothing is going the way she thought it would. Someone should slap her, one of these days. She presses the vodka against her palm. Drinking it would be more fun, but alcohol gets her nowhere good. Not at all. She turns off the oven. She feels terrible that she hung up on her mother. She had been speaking to her, right before she burned her hand. Her mother got flustered and let her go. Told her not to be distracted on the phone.

This, like so many other things in her life right now, will definitely leave a mark.

Tags: anger, being ignored, burns, cooking mishaps, frustration, hopelessness, phone conversations, sadness

DAY 19.

The rain brings her back.

Back to the night with the lightning and the thunder. All the water. It was everywhere.

They jumped in puddles. She laughed louder than usual. All of the boys took their shirts off. They howled into the night. They were drunk off life and cheap beer. They didn’t need umbrellas. They never wanted it to end.

He had his eye on her all night. There were bodies everywhere but he always found her. She’d move and his gaze would follow. She kissed him in the middle of the kitchen. It felt like a question.

The rain was freeing. It was a dark night and everyone was happy. Nobody was sad. The streetlights glinted off his skin. She could see all his tattoos. He had her leaned up against a car. His skin felt slippery under her fingers. It was a sloppy kiss. But it held such passion. Such promise.

Their hair was slicked down, heavy on their heads. They shivered and they smiled. They all floated on, alright. They danced in the living room. The music played and the rain kept falling. Their hands entwined on the walk back.

The ground shifted underneath their feet. They fell asleep in heaps in the middle of the carpet. They crawled into beds. The skin they kept hidden, it was soaked to the bone.

Tags: alcohol, friends, lust, memories, music, rain, youth

DAY 18.

We’ve been force-fed happily ever after.

From the minute we could walk, it was instilled in us that our life goal would be to find the Prince Charming. We scrutinized our feet, hoping the glass slipper would fit. Our mothers bought us things that were pink. They hoped we’d grow up to be intensely feminine. We were to be the babies they’d pictured as they ran their fingers down the list of popular girl names for the year 1988.

We imagined the large castles, the chance meetings, the star-lit skies and a full moon, the roses. We wanted Disney. We wanted romance. We wanted it all.

We waited, when we were younger.

We’d sit on our porch steps and stare down the roads of our neighborhoods. With each passing car, we held our breaths that one would turn into a horse-drawn carriage. We imagined what he’d look like. Tall, definitely. A smile full of straight teeth. His hair would be sculpted just so. He’d save us from peril. We were old enough to believe that dragons wouldn’t be swooping down on us anytime soon. But there were other dangers. He’d save us from being the last one picked at dodge-ball. He’d share his extra pudding cup on the back of the bus.

Most of us haven’t found our Prince Charming now. Those fantastical notions have been rubbed away by reality. The dashing man in the suit and tie in our business class may not be what he seems. We don’t trust those bright smiles anymore. We won’t follow when our prince tries to drunkenly lead us up the stairs. No castle awaits us.

We’ve read all of the magazines that tell us how to reel in these imaginary men. Some of us cut out articles to keep for later. Tips for how to do our makeup. A bonus list of how to please our men in sixty-five different ways. But there are always sixty-five diferent ways to please him with every issue. We don’t know how to keep up. There is too much to remember. We’ve lost sight of Prince Charming.

We sit at home some nights, nursing our broken hearts. Our magazines lie scattered around the floor. We’ve tried to do what they’ve told us. They guarantee that happy ending. But the question is still not answered: when will our fairy-tale really begin?

Tags: companionship, delusion, Disney, fears, happiness, happy endings, hopes, love, Prince Charming, reality, romance, youth

DAY 17.

She understood. Or at least, she wanted to.

When he said he wasn’t looking for what she was looking for. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for. Hasn’t known for a while.

All she knows is that she’s been searching in all the wrong places. With all the wrong people.

There is a pattern here that she’d like to break. But bad habits die hard.

This was never a habit she intended to begin.

“This won’t change a thing,” he says.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s his voice.

She believes him.

Maybe this time will be different, she thinks to herself.

He has a nice smile. His teeth are brilliant.

There is something about him that is innocent. When he stares down at her, the look in his eye doesn’t terrify her. There’s some respect there. There’s feeling.

Unlike so many months ago. When it was a different person. He had different interests. A different past. Different hair. A different name.

When it mattered so much more. When everything was heightened and out of control and new and scary and wonderful and horrible and intense.

“It’s going to be so much harder for you to stop now,” that one nameless boy had said to her in the tiny hours of morning on Halloween.

His bed was a full, instead of a twin. They could stretch out to opposite ends. They never had to touch. But they did.

In the end, he left a scar.

And now the scar has still not healed. The wound is still open.

This night is different from that night. This boy is not the same one who made her distrustful. This boy is better. Infinitely.

The thought crosses her mind that he would make a good husband. She wants to take it back.

His mouth is on her mouth and he bites her lip.

She doesn’t hate it.

She doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t hate it.

The night stretches out like a tightrope.

This is a balancing act. One wrong move, and they both slip off the edge into oblivion. There is no safety net.

She wants to forget that nameless boy. Wants to tear him out of her memory and leave no marks.

It’s definitely the wine.

Defenses are down. Inhibitions are gone. She’s so tired of the thinking. Of planning out each move. Rationalization.

He handles her with care. She hasn’t felt this safe in months.

He could stay forever, if he wanted.

“It won’t change anything,” she whispers back to him.

In the morning, they’ll be friends.

At parties, they’ll share a secret.

There might be a knowing look here, a brush of skin there. But this won’t be talked about again. Not in public anyway.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward between us. We can be okay,” he says before he leaves. He kisses her once more.

There is sunlight creeping through the blinds.

There are people passed out in the living room who will demand an explanation.

There is a hangover and a pounding headache.

There is a fleeting feeling.

There is a scar that still hasn’t healed with time.

But there is no regret.

Everything looks different with the lights on.

Tags: alcohol, healing, loneliness, love, lust, parties, patterns, regret, relationships, scars