ONE
The old house buzzes with angry rock, brazen laughter, and occasional screams from girls; it’s an audio explosion of brass sounds that once again make me question my agreement to come in the first place.
Smoke irritates my nose, some of it smelling like the green variety. The “no smoking”
sign near the entrance is clearly more of a loose suggestion than a rule as I’m pretty sure I’ve seen over a dozen people with lit cigarettes in hand, some of them among the guys hosting the party. A thick haze drifts through the room above the crowd, the smell even more robust than the cheap keg beer.
Sticky goop, probably a mix of spilled beer and strawberry margarita mix, covers the bottom of my newly purchased wedges, making a sick, sucking noise whenever I move my feet. Empty red solo cups litter every crevice of the room, apparently because we’re in college and no one can make us follow our parents’ rules.
The crowd’s an odd combination of jocks, hipsters, preps, and kids who don’t belong, like me. At least not anymore.
An oversexed freshman who’s built like Jonah Hill—pre-diet—grinds up against me every few minutes, even though I’m nowhere near the area designated as the dance floor. I’m not amused. Clearly, my desire to be alone isn’t obvious by standing in the least active corner of the house.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is my life.
Or it has become my life anyway, ever since the powers-that-be decided I was way too happy and secure, deciding to give me a healthy dose of reality to choke on.
My reflection stares back at me from an old beer sign on the wall. The narrow nose and dark blond eyelashes I inherited from my mom appear exaggerated in the warped glass. The cornflower blue eyes I inherited from my dad have lost their luster, although it could just be the low lit room overpowering their normal vibrance. But who am I kidding.
My lips are perpetually cracked because I don’t care enough to drink enough water or keep applying balm. The long, curly locks spilling well past my breasts are in serious need of not only a brushing, but also a touch-up at the roots. Because I’m too lazy to call the salon for an appointment, and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.
I wasn’t always a fun hater. I had it all in high school. I was a cheerleader with shining blond hair straight out of a L'Oréal commercial, and a killer body that every guy wanted to sack. My long-term sweetheart, Jason, was at the top of the girls’ lists for hotties, and just happened to be the star quarterback. Every girl either wanted to be me, or hated my guts because of my perceived perfection. The social world was at my fingertips. I was living the high life as our school’s queen bee.
I don’t think anyone was neither sympathetic nor surprised when I was so unceremoniously knocked down.
I look away from the mirror, down to the cup in my hands filled with flat beer. Until recently, I was usually among the typical party girls you see at these kinds of things, slamming down shots of vodka and tequila just as quickly as they’re handed out. I would’ve possibly hooked up with some random guy, and woke in a strange room the next morning.
Then my depression meds were kicked up a notch at my mom’s request. Now I’m just kind of numb to life. Taking a pill doesn’t magically make a person’s mental health better. It doesn’t take away all the hurt and anguish over something that forever changed you. The alcohol doesn’t mix with the drugs—I know this—but sometimes I just need to mask the pain of my past.
I simply go through the motions of each day, going to classes, work, and letting my best friend drag me to these stupid parties, meanwhile waiting for a booty call from my current fling. I have no drive, no vision of what I want to do with my life. Some days I really don’t care if things ever change. Other days I think I’d be doing the universe a favor if I just didn’t wake up in the morning.
You will become what you deserve.
Did some ingenious poet with a MFA say that, or was it something I saw on Pinterest?
I dump my drink into a half-dead fern in the corner that’s doubling as an ash tray, and check my phone for the billionth time in the last ten minutes. As usual, my best friend/roommate/wing-woman, Kelly, has become MIA , most likely hooking up on her way to the bathroom.
Before I can leave in search of her, I’m approached by someone so incredibly tall that he’s possibly headlining in the circus. His dark eyes fall on me, filled with that drunken haze most guys get after a healthy dose of hard alcohol. His short, reddish-blond hair looks messy from some kind of playful scuffle with a buddy. The gray t-shirt he dons with the school’s logo and mascot plastered across the front looks wet from mid-chest down, most likely the result of a spilled beverage.