It's nine o' clock and I am severely unable to drive...a fifth of rum and I'm a goner...whatever, I ate an orange. When I was a kid, more of a kid than current state of mind dictates, I would subject myself to a few belts of whatever mummers had in the cupboard(sorry, now you know) and consequently 'belt' out a song or two on her awesome stereo system. Being the product of an artist/musical connoisseur, one develops tendencies in this manner/matter. I remember distinctly that first time this happened:
Sixteen...typical situation of adults and sibling away for the weekend. I break up with my first boyfriend/first boy kissed in my short existence and regret it...age old and understood by all, I realize. I helped myself to various alcohol stored in our cupboard above the glassware...rum, vodka, cognac, something in a purple bottle. I really went to town. Second time only ever partaking in the pastime of the drink, as my first experience yielded mixed results: Two beer and vomitous maximus.
So, blaring Silverchair and screaming every word at the top of my lungs, I proceeded to drink random liquor til the projectile puke came followed fast by sweat soaked sleep. It was awesome. The longing, the regret, the passion! I have not felt that way in, oh, a few years since and here I am. I am back, or never really left and just hid it rather well from the world. No, this is new, again. I am new again. I lie on my carpeted floor, music at reasonable decibels only cuz I'm not a fucking asshole and respect my neighbors, drunk, covered in citric acid and singing like a maniac. Did I mention it was nine pm? Yeah, perhaps my staying power ain't what it was...that's okay, I can live with that.
I am a teenager once more...less acne and debilitating self loathing, but a teen nonetheless. I feel renewed. Alive. Desperately sad. Honest. That last one is the rum talking. I haven't been here in some time and it is wonderful. I hope it's real.
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