Inevitable future alcoholism.

This past Saturday, I did a thing. I became a cool kid.
I drank alcohol for the first time.
My first few sips of the Bacardi and rum I was given tasted strange, but the more I drank the more I enjoyed it.

The alcohol affecting me allowed me to function in a social environment in ways I never had been able to before, due to my introversion and antisocial tendencies.

I held a conversation with a complete stranger.
I was cracking jokes with everyone in the room, and I only knew 3 of them.
I was enjoying myself at a party that consisted of more than 5 people. (There were about 10 people.)

I didn't get drunk, though. I managed to stop at, as my friend put it, "That point after tipsy but before drunk where you're supposed to stop but no one ever does."

And I loved every second of it. And since, I've wanted more, constantly. Even right now, 8:47 pm, Monday night, when I have school tomorrow, I'd love a drink.

I handled my alcohol surprisingly well, as when I was in my inebriated state my motor skills were perfectly intact and my brain was functioning at full capacity, with only a shorter attention span.
It was great!

But the way I handled my alcohol so great reminded me
Alcoholism runs in my family.
Addiction in general runs in my family.
And I enjoyed my first time drinking way too much to be healthy for someone in my family.

I've even stated, multiple times, that "alcohol is my new favorite thing."
My friends and I now crack jokes about how I'm going to be the constant drunk out of all of us.
How, I'm gonna get wasted any time there's even a small party.

And part of me is EXTREMELY worried that it's true.
Because I've seen the kind of shit alcohol can do to someone.
And even though I'm a happy drinker, that does not mean it doesn't hold the potential to completely fuck up my life.
Because it can, and odds are, it'll come close to, if not completely ruining me.

I have a 7/10 chance of becoming an alcoholic, roughly.
I also have a 6/10 chance of becoming a functioning alcoholic, which a good portion of the alcoholics in my family are.
That's a 65% chance that I won't completely ruin my life if I become an alcoholic (It's 65% because this is completely dependent on if I even become an alcoholic.)
But a 70% chance that I will.

Roughly.

adfgadsfgasdfafh

I didn't expect this blog to be as fun as it is.

That is all.

Expectations are poopy.

As a gifted and intelligent guy who has no problem speaking his mind, people have high expectations of me.
High school should be no problem for me, and I should have scholarship offers coming out of my ass. I mean, at 5 years old my IQ was higher than that of the average adult's.

Life should be easy, yeah?
That's bullshit.

High school is the hardest thing I've ever had to go through in my life, especially when plagued with anxiety, and depression. I'm missing ~11 credits, last I checked.
Eleven credits. Each class is worth one credit.

There's no way I'm graduating with my class. I should've dropped out by now. Any sane person would've.

But not me. I promised myself, my parents, and my grandparents that I would get my fucking diploma, no matter how long it takes me. But that's not what keeps me in school.

Telling me "you're smart, you can do this." isn't going to motivate me. I've heard it a million times, and it only makes me feel like the world's biggest disappointment. But when people tell me I can't do something,

Hohboyherewego

My freshman biology teacher told me I had no hope of passing her class.
Guess what I did?
I passed. just barely, but I passed.

And I rubbed her stupid fucking face in it.
How dare you tell me I can't do something? That I have no hope? Fuck you. The only person allowed to do that is me.

I fail to meet most expectations.
Unless I'm expected to fail those expectations.
#contradiction

Darn gosh little kids.

Now, two things about me. One, I love little kids. They allow me to bring my inner child out and interact with them on their own level and just have, pure, plain, childish fun.

Two, I'm a huge introvert. Spending a day with a friend or two means I have to spend the next day or two completely alone (physically, at the least) or I will just not have a good time.

I have these 2 little cousins. Love them to death. The younger is about 4, and the older is 6-7. I'm not entirely sure. They've come over a lot in the past few days, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

I went to my friend Avery's house with my friend Connor, and we played video games and shit and had a fuckton of fun. I went home the next day, which is today.
My little cousins were there, and all I wanted to do was just not.
I wanted to lay on my bed, listen to music, and not talk to anyone ever.

But you can't do that when you're the only one in your family who your cousins want to play with.
Never have I wanted to punch a little kid in the face more than I did today.

When I got home, the first thing I did was go to my room, pack my things, and lay down for a nap.
Immediately, I hear a knock on my door
"BYRON, ARE YOU PLAYING PLANTS VS. ZOMBIES?"
"No."
"CAN I PLAY PLANTS VS. ZOMBIES?"
"No, I deleted it."
"UNDELETE IT."
"No."

Thank based God their mother came and took them out of my hair so I could nap.

After my nap, I got in a Skype call with some friends, and me and my friends are not a suitable habitat for this cactus little kids.
"Hey Byron, can we play now?", the oldest would come and ask me.
"I'm talking with my friends, maybe later."

I had no intention of playing with them later on, but that did not stop him from barging in every 10 seconds and saying "How about now?"

I don't know where I'm going with this, I'm just typing.
Eh.

He did this for about an hour straight until I physically had to push both of them out of my room and call his mom to get them.
They tried to block me at the door.

They failed.

I don't want them here as often as they have been ever again.
This was Hell.

Ignore my venting. Ignore it.

I wrote this a long time ago to vent.
It's not as relevent anymore.
But I still feel it belongs here.

You're not going to read this.
Why would you?

You're done with me.

I told you.
Didn't I?

I told you it’d happen. It always happens.
But you never believed me.
You always held strong to the belief that you’d stay.
Whether your faith was in yourself or me, I can’t say.
But we can both agree you were wrong, and I was right.
I’m always right, yeah?

I wish I wasn't.
I wish that I still had my best friend by my side.
I wish I didn't push you away the way that I did.
I wish I wasn't the way I am.

I wish you didn't hate me.
Because I could never hate you in return.

I know why you abandoned me.
And I completely understand.
That doesn't change that I’m depressed, though.
It doesn't change how I've been broken up since February.
How I get quiet at the mention of your name.
How I can’t handle seeing you in person because then all I do is remember.

I have a fantastic memory. You know that.
I remember every good time, and every bad.
And there were a lot of both.
I can’t see a duck without thinking of the time ducks attacked us, and chuckling.
I can’t go to Nob Hill without remembering every single spot where I made a stupid joke.
Every store we stopped at just to check it out.
It’s because of you that Nob Hill is my favorite place in all of Albuquerque.
I can’t go to the duck pond without at least staring at where we sat for 2 hours.
I can’t see your name on Facebook without remembering how we spoke all day, every day, no exceptions.

And you know what? It hurts.
But just because it makes me sad doesn't mean I’m not angry.
I’m furious.
Fuck you.
Fuck you for seeing me as some kind of broken thing to fix.
Fuck you for never realizing that I am the way I am for a reason.
Fuck you for taking “I can’t change” as a challenge.
Fuck you for failing to understand that I don’t want or need help.

But thank you for trying.
Maybe next time I’ll think of you and give it a shot.

Y'know, I didn't intend this blog to get deep, ever. I thought I was just gonna fuck around on it.

But that doesn't seem to be where this is headed.

I came out of the womb telling a knock-knock joke.

I had Psychology today. We were talking about the psychology of superheroes (WHICH IS MY SHIT LEMME TELL YOU), and our teacher had us stare at ourselves in Photobooth for a minute while thinking of our 3 best characteristics.

Humor was at the top of both the list I wrote, and the list of a survey I took which is neat and it's right here. That reminded me of a quote and a belief I've always held firmly to.

"Heard joke once. man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, 'Treatment is simple, great clown Pagliacci is in town. Go see him, that should lift you up.' Man bursts into tears. Says, 'But Doctor, I am Pagliacci."

Funny people are the saddest you'll ever meet.

I'ma tell a little story. I was never the most popular kid, growing up. I've been called every name in the book so many times that now, words bounce off me as if I was a Verbal Superman. Fuck Superman. 

But little seven-year-old Byron wasn't so tough. Every word stung, every noun, verb, and adjective stabbing like a knife coated in prepositions, right in my self-esteem, making me hate everyone as much as myself.

One day, I cracked a joke. I don't even remember if it was intentional. But people laughed. Almost as if they liked me. Words still hurt then, yeah, but now I could hide it and pretend it never bothered me in the first place.

"Hey, you hear the one about the comedian who croaked? / Someone stabbed him in the heart, just a little poke. / But he keeled over because he went into battle wearing chainmail made of jokes." - George Watsky

Actual real posting time.

Well, after that doozy of an introduction post

Let's get to some real shit.
It's 10 PM. I'm in a Skype group with some dudes.
They're cool dudes. Except Will.
I only went to two of my classes today, so that's neat.
I don't know where I'm going with this.
I'm just typing, and listening to these guys be idiots while I type.
Now Connor's beatboxing. Damn honky.
Tap tap tap.
Onomatopoeias are great.

Oh yeah, I was told I look exactly like the lead singer of The Killers. I don't know who that is.
Connor said "That poor bastard."
I quickly, and very cleverly responded with a well worded "Fuck you."

I'm going to be living with these guys in the future. Except Will.

I guess this post really went nowhere.

Welp.
Fuck y'all, I'm beautiful.

Ah, shit.

Hey.
This is a thing.
A thing that I made.
In which I will be posting stuff.
That I write.
Yep.
This would be better if I was better at articulating my thoughts without being vulgar, combative and contradictory.

Fuck it.
I have a blog now.
And I'm gonna use it.