Often, it's easier to do the wrong things in life than it is to do the prudent. This taken into account, it takes more effort to do those things that fall into even the grey areas of morality than it does the bad, bad things. Sometimes the severely downed and unmotivated chumps in life have nowhere to aim but at their own feet.
This story takes place in August 2001 apporximately 2 months after the death of my best friend, Barry. He died in an auto accident that may or may not have been suicide. His family never made an official comment, and various bits of evidence obsfucate the forces in play on the night he died.
I had spiraled out of control like the bastard son of a bottle rocket and a corkscrew. My drug problems amplified themselves at least twofold in the months since Barry's death, and the trail of confused friends I left in my wake couldn't do anything to calm me the hell down.
Barry had a little brother, a year younger than he, named Michael. At the time he was 19 and I was 20. Despite how awful my behaviour had become, I'd had it on my mind to sort of watch out for Michael, and to improve my friendship with him. We started hanging out, talking, light partying. In August, he was moving into a house at nearby Bloomsburg U to attend school. One of his housemates was another close friend of mine, Aaron. He's probably my closest friend in the world today.
He and the other inhabitants of this house were going to have a house warming shindig. An average college party. . .you all know what they're like at this point. Lots of people, booze, drugs, whatever. I'm not going to paint a picture of this right now; it's inconsequential for the most part.
Everyone ends up wasted, of course. Michael's ex-girlfriend from the previous semester shows up. Far be it for me to make any assumptions about their relationship,but I remembered Michael not having kind words to say about it. It was one of those incredibly lame on-again off-again relationships that left everyone depressed and wasted. They ended up talking, and this whole thing disgusted me. What the fuck? What would his brother have thought if he saw his little brother getting worked over by some manipulative little girl. Jesus.
The next time Michael went to hit up the keg I told him I had to talk to him. We end up in a corner of the backyard of the house. Two people were sitting on the back porch smoking cigrarettes, paying no attention in particular to us. In hushed tones I started a conversation most fateful. I believe it went like this:
"Michael, what the fuck are you doing with her?" I asked.
The moonlight made facial expressions palapable features in this conversation. His eyes meandered and rolled on the sky before he responded. "I don't know, man."
Completely, utterly, wasted. I didn't know what to say or do. All I know is I didn't want him to end up reconciling with this stupid, potentially evil woman, probably because he was grief-stricken or something. What the hell?! How was I supposed to combat the powers of drunken sexual appeal!
"Michael, dude, you CAN'T do anything with her, man," I stated. I only knew how to hold my ground firmly, at this point. I, too, was wasted, after all.
"I know," he said. Portents and the insanity of days past long ignored, he reached up and started rubbing my upper chest. Not in the way friends do.
I'll cut this now before I get into flat out pornography. But let it be known, I made out with my dead best friend's little brother.
An hour of sheer, sheer, awkwardness later, I ended up back in the house. I went up to Aaron's room and plopped myself down on his bed. Aaron was sitting at the computer doing whatever it is that business majors do.
"Aaron, I think I just did something really bad," I said, hand rubbing chin.
Aaron already knew how awful I'd gotten over the past two months. He didn't even look back before saying, "What?"
"I, uh, just did stuff with Barry's little brother."
"Stuff?"
"Yeah, you know. Stuff."
This set Aaron off pretty badly. He had also gone to school with Barry, and was a close friend of his. When this sort of problem arises between two friends, one drunken and the other drunken and filled with drugs, there's only one possible soultion.
We were fist-fighting on the ground in front of the house within 5 minutes, with the remaining party goers shouting all the way through the fight. The outcome, of course, was unclear. I'd say I got my ass kicked, since I ended up scrambling for my car (a shitty 77 El Torino). I drove off.
My original plan when that night started was to spend the night at Aaron and Michael's place. I didn't plan on driving. No excuse, I know. This was the night of the big car crash. While flying over a hill on a service road between Bloomsburg and Catawisa, my transmission dropped and sent me clipping into a 500 pound boulder on the side of the road. I moved it 70 feet. My car then rolled several times, hit a telephone poll (while rolling sideways), and landed upside down. The car was demolished.
So was my body. A scratched eye. Broken ribs. Broken jaw. Broken left knee. Left leg broken in 3 places. A concussion that left me so out of it that I don't even remember September 11th. The trauma from the crash left me with both epilepsy and diabetes.
The day after the crash, in the Geisinger ER, after going through emergency surgery and still being listed in critical condition, a police officer interviewed me and got me to sign a waiver on several charges regarding items found in the crash. I'll never trust government- affiliated people after that. I had a serious concussion! I can't even remember this happening! I just know it happened because I've seen my signature on the paper (although it doesn't look like mine).
Ah, fuck it!
Also, Aaron feels guilty about this to this day, and he feels I'd be in a better positiion today if he never tried to fight me. I still milk him over this, too.
This story takes place in August 2001 apporximately 2 months after the death of my best friend, Barry. He died in an auto accident that may or may not have been suicide. His family never made an official comment, and various bits of evidence obsfucate the forces in play on the night he died.
I had spiraled out of control like the bastard son of a bottle rocket and a corkscrew. My drug problems amplified themselves at least twofold in the months since Barry's death, and the trail of confused friends I left in my wake couldn't do anything to calm me the hell down.
Barry had a little brother, a year younger than he, named Michael. At the time he was 19 and I was 20. Despite how awful my behaviour had become, I'd had it on my mind to sort of watch out for Michael, and to improve my friendship with him. We started hanging out, talking, light partying. In August, he was moving into a house at nearby Bloomsburg U to attend school. One of his housemates was another close friend of mine, Aaron. He's probably my closest friend in the world today.
He and the other inhabitants of this house were going to have a house warming shindig. An average college party. . .you all know what they're like at this point. Lots of people, booze, drugs, whatever. I'm not going to paint a picture of this right now; it's inconsequential for the most part.
Everyone ends up wasted, of course. Michael's ex-girlfriend from the previous semester shows up. Far be it for me to make any assumptions about their relationship,but I remembered Michael not having kind words to say about it. It was one of those incredibly lame on-again off-again relationships that left everyone depressed and wasted. They ended up talking, and this whole thing disgusted me. What the fuck? What would his brother have thought if he saw his little brother getting worked over by some manipulative little girl. Jesus.
The next time Michael went to hit up the keg I told him I had to talk to him. We end up in a corner of the backyard of the house. Two people were sitting on the back porch smoking cigrarettes, paying no attention in particular to us. In hushed tones I started a conversation most fateful. I believe it went like this:
"Michael, what the fuck are you doing with her?" I asked.
The moonlight made facial expressions palapable features in this conversation. His eyes meandered and rolled on the sky before he responded. "I don't know, man."
Completely, utterly, wasted. I didn't know what to say or do. All I know is I didn't want him to end up reconciling with this stupid, potentially evil woman, probably because he was grief-stricken or something. What the hell?! How was I supposed to combat the powers of drunken sexual appeal!
"Michael, dude, you CAN'T do anything with her, man," I stated. I only knew how to hold my ground firmly, at this point. I, too, was wasted, after all.
"I know," he said. Portents and the insanity of days past long ignored, he reached up and started rubbing my upper chest. Not in the way friends do.
I'll cut this now before I get into flat out pornography. But let it be known, I made out with my dead best friend's little brother.
An hour of sheer, sheer, awkwardness later, I ended up back in the house. I went up to Aaron's room and plopped myself down on his bed. Aaron was sitting at the computer doing whatever it is that business majors do.
"Aaron, I think I just did something really bad," I said, hand rubbing chin.
Aaron already knew how awful I'd gotten over the past two months. He didn't even look back before saying, "What?"
"I, uh, just did stuff with Barry's little brother."
"Stuff?"
"Yeah, you know. Stuff."
This set Aaron off pretty badly. He had also gone to school with Barry, and was a close friend of his. When this sort of problem arises between two friends, one drunken and the other drunken and filled with drugs, there's only one possible soultion.
We were fist-fighting on the ground in front of the house within 5 minutes, with the remaining party goers shouting all the way through the fight. The outcome, of course, was unclear. I'd say I got my ass kicked, since I ended up scrambling for my car (a shitty 77 El Torino). I drove off.
My original plan when that night started was to spend the night at Aaron and Michael's place. I didn't plan on driving. No excuse, I know. This was the night of the big car crash. While flying over a hill on a service road between Bloomsburg and Catawisa, my transmission dropped and sent me clipping into a 500 pound boulder on the side of the road. I moved it 70 feet. My car then rolled several times, hit a telephone poll (while rolling sideways), and landed upside down. The car was demolished.
So was my body. A scratched eye. Broken ribs. Broken jaw. Broken left knee. Left leg broken in 3 places. A concussion that left me so out of it that I don't even remember September 11th. The trauma from the crash left me with both epilepsy and diabetes.
The day after the crash, in the Geisinger ER, after going through emergency surgery and still being listed in critical condition, a police officer interviewed me and got me to sign a waiver on several charges regarding items found in the crash. I'll never trust government- affiliated people after that. I had a serious concussion! I can't even remember this happening! I just know it happened because I've seen my signature on the paper (although it doesn't look like mine).
Ah, fuck it!
Also, Aaron feels guilty about this to this day, and he feels I'd be in a better positiion today if he never tried to fight me. I still milk him over this, too.
Seriously, that's pretty messed up right there. Has your leg healed up fully? Any permanent damage? PEACE.