Iawoke with a phone call. A person who I had suspected of stealing a vast number of my prized possessions all in the hope of capturing a large bottle of vodka. A handle I wield on the weekends. He was offended.
If you give a mouse a cookie, pray he won't come back to steal the entire cookie jar.
The following voice mail was one of rage. "You better fucking apologize for framing me. I wouldn't steal your shit. If you want your bag back, you can come fucking get it."
As a benefactor to almost every party I go to, I stand ashamed to be the victim of such an offensive message.
Regardless, I would stumble upon my bag only hours later after he dropped it off. Avoiding direct contact with me was probably a wise choice. The bag did not have my vodka. And my advil was gone. Shame.
I fell asleep.
I awoke shaking. My body was quaking in fear. Anxiety; an irrational fear of improbable scenarios. If I was going to attend a party that night I would need alcohol.
My brain in its hypersensitve state was firing off mixed signals of expecting the worst, most traumatizing events to take place; the shame and guilt I had collected over the following days came rushing back into my veins, consuming my entire body and mind. My coordination was impaired, the very act of walking was as if I were being judged by thousands of critics,
Why am I afraid? I need alcohol now.
A shadowy, dimness gave the illusion of relaxation to the party. The fizzy carbonation tickled my throat as the 40 oz Mickeys slipped down the hatch. Within minutes I felt my body loosen, my thoughts clear and logical thinking returned.
"I am the most socially intelligent person I know. Out of all of my friends." An intoxicated close friend of mine claimed. This sparked a heavy debate over the true essence of communication.
"I believe there are many factors that go into social intelligence, as the mere act of being attractive can distract from the true mental and social capability of the person." I replied.
"I can look at someone and knowtheirproblem. No one else hasthis ability except for me." he continued to drunkenly speak, "You have anxiety. Iknow this, and I truly believe my friends and I have helped you come out of it."
Was it the truth...? No. I don't have anxiety in the traditional sense. My anxiety is sparked by use of substances. I have endured both forms of anxiety, both derived through traumatic experiences and anxiety developed from a chemical imbalance through the use of drugs. I have overcome both illnesses.
The girls came. Ages 18-20, they were the type of party girls who hold a respective distance from sexual promiscuity. I am forced to be flirtatious, regardless of my lack of sexual desires toward them.
Feed Me plays in the other room. I stop my conversation and quickly make way for the dance floor. My feet slip and slide across the tile as I practice a well maintained shuffling routine; although shallow to say, as unattractive people try to dance with me, I leave for the porch, blood still pumping, eyes wide open from the exhilarating effects of letting loose.
The party host, an attractive college aged girl and I held a long conversation about drug use. She was studying to become a substance abuse rehabilitation specialist. Needless to say, my views on harm reduction sparked her interest. Others attempted to join the conversation. We spoke at a level above most people. Their illogical bias was quickly washed out. Attempts by other guys to hook up with her was pointless. Fate had chosen me to make this connection. We shared a great conversation. In all honesty I prize these mind to mind connections over sex itself.
Blackness
My lips came in contact with an unknown face later that night as I sat in the room of a good friend. Through a drunken exploit and increased productivity due to intoxication, we came into the company of two fairly attractive girls.
I suddenly awoke on the sofa of my brother's room. For a brief moment my world continued to spin. It came to a stop. I was sober again.
Time to ride my bike. Time to plan the next adventure.
-Renz Envy
If you give a mouse a cookie, pray he won't come back to steal the entire cookie jar.
The following voice mail was one of rage. "You better fucking apologize for framing me. I wouldn't steal your shit. If you want your bag back, you can come fucking get it."
As a benefactor to almost every party I go to, I stand ashamed to be the victim of such an offensive message.
Regardless, I would stumble upon my bag only hours later after he dropped it off. Avoiding direct contact with me was probably a wise choice. The bag did not have my vodka. And my advil was gone. Shame.
I fell asleep.
I awoke shaking. My body was quaking in fear. Anxiety; an irrational fear of improbable scenarios. If I was going to attend a party that night I would need alcohol.
My brain in its hypersensitve state was firing off mixed signals of expecting the worst, most traumatizing events to take place; the shame and guilt I had collected over the following days came rushing back into my veins, consuming my entire body and mind. My coordination was impaired, the very act of walking was as if I were being judged by thousands of critics,
Why am I afraid? I need alcohol now.
A shadowy, dimness gave the illusion of relaxation to the party. The fizzy carbonation tickled my throat as the 40 oz Mickeys slipped down the hatch. Within minutes I felt my body loosen, my thoughts clear and logical thinking returned.
"I am the most socially intelligent person I know. Out of all of my friends." An intoxicated close friend of mine claimed. This sparked a heavy debate over the true essence of communication.
"I believe there are many factors that go into social intelligence, as the mere act of being attractive can distract from the true mental and social capability of the person." I replied.
"I can look at someone and knowtheirproblem. No one else hasthis ability except for me." he continued to drunkenly speak, "You have anxiety. Iknow this, and I truly believe my friends and I have helped you come out of it."
Was it the truth...? No. I don't have anxiety in the traditional sense. My anxiety is sparked by use of substances. I have endured both forms of anxiety, both derived through traumatic experiences and anxiety developed from a chemical imbalance through the use of drugs. I have overcome both illnesses.
The girls came. Ages 18-20, they were the type of party girls who hold a respective distance from sexual promiscuity. I am forced to be flirtatious, regardless of my lack of sexual desires toward them.
Feed Me plays in the other room. I stop my conversation and quickly make way for the dance floor. My feet slip and slide across the tile as I practice a well maintained shuffling routine; although shallow to say, as unattractive people try to dance with me, I leave for the porch, blood still pumping, eyes wide open from the exhilarating effects of letting loose.
The party host, an attractive college aged girl and I held a long conversation about drug use. She was studying to become a substance abuse rehabilitation specialist. Needless to say, my views on harm reduction sparked her interest. Others attempted to join the conversation. We spoke at a level above most people. Their illogical bias was quickly washed out. Attempts by other guys to hook up with her was pointless. Fate had chosen me to make this connection. We shared a great conversation. In all honesty I prize these mind to mind connections over sex itself.
Blackness
My lips came in contact with an unknown face later that night as I sat in the room of a good friend. Through a drunken exploit and increased productivity due to intoxication, we came into the company of two fairly attractive girls.
I suddenly awoke on the sofa of my brother's room. For a brief moment my world continued to spin. It came to a stop. I was sober again.
Time to ride my bike. Time to plan the next adventure.
-Renz Envy
