I lit my hair on fire

I’ve never really been one for drinking.

Growing up around a family of extreme alcoholics left, thankfully, a more negative imprint that kept me from following in their footprints and consuming my life. Hell, only recently did I learn from my mother (a recovering alcoholic, thank god) that she doesn’t know really anything about who I am as a person and can’t remember most of my teenage years.

My parent doesn’t know me because of alcohol. That’s crazy.

It isn’t like I never drink, though… I just never get drunk. Shit, I don’t even get to the point of a buzz because of what I think it might do to me or how it might impair me. Honestly, I feel that it’s also a pretty big problem:

I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been drunk once in my life.

I was fifteen, and I was at a house warming party for my cousin with most of the staff from my families vocational college, all of which I was friends with.

At first, I started drinking a beer… my family was practically livid to indoctrinate me into their cult. One beer turned to two, four… it’d only been an hour since I we got there, and I can remember having downed seven beers… I was a champion!

What a fool I had been, I had no clue that this is what drinking was like… how exciting! Seven beers, and I wasn’t even remotely buzzed. I was laughing and yelling and joking and contemplating how all this time I had thought alcohol was the enemy, and how wrong I had been… how amazing I felt and how I fit in with everyone else.

Eventually, Captain Morgan joined the party, and as I poured a fifth of rum down my throat faster than the rest of the hyenas around me I felt… invincible.

I was fifteen, though, and although it wasn’t my first time drinking… it was my first (and last) time nearly drinking myself to death.

I hadn’t understood what alcohol did to you, I hadn’t understood why the hours leading up to me losing my mind I was completely in control of my thoughts and actions. I didn’t understand that the impairment wasn’t immediate… and that wasn’t a good thing.

It is funny, though… looking back at it all, the last thing I remember clearly was telling someone how much I had drank and how it hasn’t effected me yet. I remember his surprise and worry at the number, as well as his acknowledgement that I was still in control.

Then I remember, minutes later, him telling everyone around that “he was fine just a few minutes ago!

Everything else after that is a blur. I remember being told grab our receptionists breasts, lying down next to her on the floor while she was being told to grab me back.

I remember throwing up on their balcony, in their plants, and bathtub.

Then I remember the sink. I remember there being candles around the faucet, and the dire need to wash out my mouth. I remember feeling my head feeling hot, and leaving the bathroom and hearing “What is that smell!

I think I lit my hair on fire!” I said back to the voice.

To be honest with you, I have no idea how I knew that I lit my hair on fire. Not a single clue. I can remember the image and feeling there clearly, but I can also remember just saying that as a response with no real context behind it.

Then, thank god, someone saved me. My cousin’s husbands mother came to the party and saw how absolutely fucked up I was and took care or me.

She also bore the wrath of every explicative in my young vocabular arsenal. Which, due to the extreme nature in which I gamed, was a lot.

So, that’s my story.

Truthfully, I wish I could feel comfortable getting drunk. I wish the thought didn’t terrify me, or that I could be a more social drinker, but I guess it’s just another area of my life that seperates me from feeling like I’m not awkward or strange.

Thanks for reading!

People I know scare me

My best friends have always been strangers.

People I’ve met in passing… on the street, in the Airport, on a bus… it hasn’t really mattered where, but Mistress Eiren tells me that I seem genuinely happy when I meet someone new, that I have a way of talking to strangers captivates them. She tells me that I’m tall and attractive, I’m attentive and understanding, soft when it’s needed and loud when it’s funny, and that I’m oh so innocent and engulfed by their story’s… and, bless her heart, that my eyes sparkle like sapphires, and that people can’t stand but to stare into them.

I don’t know about any of that, all I really want to know when I start talking is who they are, what they’re doing, where they’re going, where they’ve been… I want to know them, and my smile is always sincere. If I meet you in the terminal, and I don’t know who you are… I’m happy to see you and know everything about you.

That is, until I know you… then, as a twitter friend put it, I feel as if my very presence is cruelly imposing on your life… I’m not worth being your friend, and my opinion doesn’t matter. I talk quick and low, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m nervous, sweaty, and full of doubt. My doubt, your doubt, everyones doubt… it doesn’t matter who’s it belongs to, because I’m now the proprietor of it all. I’m aware of just how awkward I am, how the way I move is strange and how I sound so weird… I know that it would be better for me to just stay quiet and still and out of the way, because I know that I won’t be accepted for who I am. I know that I’m off, and I know that I’m scared, and timid, and I just want to run away.

I’m more frightened of my friends than I am of strangers… and it hurts.

It hurts to be scared and nervous to get close to someone.