Parties
fucking
suck.
Rich coming from a guy who has partied almost every weekend for, like, 7 years, I know. I guess that I just don't like parties hosted by 19-year-olds in the place where I live, because, well, when drugs and alcohol are accessible, I do drugs and I drink alcohol.
Like, before I could physically force myself to stay in my apartment, unshowered and dressed in gross clothes so going out would take a bit of effort, discouraging me from doing it. Now, it's super easy to throw on some clothes and just waltz out into the chaos of college students.
Something about the legality of alcohol now, and weed, for that matter, makes it all so boring. I don't do a fuckton of stronger drugs anymore—only Xanax and the occasional tab—so it's not exciting anymore, not rebellious.
Kell
is
drunk.
Never seen a less sober man in my life, and I know a lot of meth and heroin addicts. He hangs over my shoulders, pacing a little behind the couch I'm sitting on. Well, more like swaying. I think he just loses his balance over and over again. "Aiden?" he yells, a bit louder than necessary.
"Yeah?"
"Do I have a reason to be pissed at Sam?" he asks. "I want to argue with him."
"That's not a good idea." This stupid laugh leaves my lips.
I
am
high.
Or maybe it's the mixture of weed and alcohol. Not the best one, especially not with a bit of Xanax still wearing out. Honestly, it's not even fun. Again, I just did it because it was accessible, and I keep laughing but I really, really want to lie down and die.
"You know," Kell says, squeezing my shoulders (or maybe he just stumbled and used me for support), "you're a great friend. I love you, man. Like, I was sooo scared my roommate would suck, or be reeeaaally boring. Or another Sam, to be honest. Like, I love him too, but, you know, I'd fear for my life. And if the new Sam and the old Sam became friends? Dude, I'd be fucked."
God, can I stop laughing? It's this pathetic, tiny laugh too. "I love you too, man."
I reach forward to the table to grab a bottle of beer—I hate bottles of beer, cans are where it's at. Kell follows the movement a bit, causing my already unsteady grip to be more unsteady because, well, he might not weigh a lot, especially not when leaning over a couch, but it's still a weight and the bottle? Yeah, slips out of my hand. Who could see that coming?
It shatters with this deafening noise that makes my head pound in less than a millisecond. Mind you, the already deafening music is blasting in the room next to us—this thing is loud.
Once the pain has gotten a bit more bearable, I laugh with Kell, and bend down to pick up the glass shards, blindly patting the floor after them and putting them up on the table.
"Dude," Kell says, "it's glass, you can't do that. Trust me, I cut myself so deep with glass shards once. Oh, and I shattered a mirror to cut too. That was a baaad mental breakdown. Knives are still superior, though. Razorblades are too thin. Fuck, man, the glass shard incident was when I tried to stich it myself. It didn't work. A nurse at the hospital scolded me. She's real nice, though, but it kind of felt like a disappointed parent. My parents weren't disappointed, though, my mom just cried."
You know, I can't feel a lot, physically or emotionally, but that? Well, that made me kind of sad.
Like the idiot I am, I swipe my foot over the floor to find any more glass shards. Thankfully, I don't. I do, however, find what little beer was left in the bottle. Guess my sock will be all sticky now.
