Lackluster Breakfast

3

Drunken Mistakes and a Lackluster Breakfast

Reilly Johnson

Scene: a way too busy dinner on an abnormally loud Monday morning

Characters:

Myself- dying from my first real hangover, and uneasy from the night before. Little Brother- My best and first friend I made in college. He is in love with me. The R.A.- The boy I have a major crush on, who is also Little Brothers closest friend since high school.

Purpose: Brunch with my two favorite guys in hopes of mending the rift that arose from the actions of the previous night

To the outside perspective we were just three average college kids, obviously too hungover to talk from a night of debaucheries. Most likely skipping our morning classes. That’s only half right… well it’s all right, but only half of the story. Sure, as we chugged our coffee, and we wished for Tylenol. We were praying that the greasy hash browns were magic and would soak up the rest of the liquor in our stomachs. Each of us pleaded with our god for the miracle of sobriety. We were not talking; our heads were pounding but that was just a good excuse. If we broke our silence, it would shatter the illusion of last night didn’t really happen. It would thrust us into facing the shame head on, and that was out of the question. Our heads were going through enough right now. That was the whole reason we agreed to go get burnt coffee and bad eggs at the ungodly hour of ten thirty in the morning. It was meant to be a reset. Little brother is the only one of us who drinks regularly. The R.A and I tend to get our kicks from other vices. However, we will drink occasionally. Last night was one of those occasions (and boy were we all regretting it now). That breakfast was a lot like watching an old person falling in slow motion. It was the funniest thing if you didn’t know them, but if you knew the old person, you would (A) not be able to look away, (B) have a pit in your stomach the size of Cuba, and

(C) pray that everything will be okay even though you know it probably won’t be. Little brother and R.A. are both Catholic, so they were taught from a young age how to handle their liquor. I, being from New Orleans, am expected to do the same. I cannot. A fact I am not proud of and do everything in my power to avoid. I don’t know why I am ashamed of not being a super experienced drinker. As the daughter of an alcoholic, it should be a good thing that I saw the worst aspects of drinking and made a choice to not go overboard. But now as I attend dumb frat parties, -having never acquired a taste for beer-, I find myself lying. I say I “pre-gamed a little too hard” so that’s why they don’t see me with a red solo cup in hand. It is no secret that alcohol turns people into an emotional wreck. The last time I drank tequila, I ended up crying on a roof wondering why everyone I love leaves me. This is why I don’t drink very often. Also, children who have a parent who struggles with alcohol have a much higher risk of becoming an alcoholic themselves. My mother refuses to let my brother and I become a statistic. But every once in a while, the boys could convince me to let loose, celebrate the end of finals, (or just a really hard week) and party with them. My boys and I went too deep in a bottle and no one liked what they found there. The things that were said still hung in the air and stung worse than the Gin. I hurt my two closest friends and now were sitting across the table from each other, barely able to look them in the eye. I wasn’t only guilty party in this. Fingers had been pointed and drunken accusations rang far too true in the harsh sunshine on the new morning. I didn’t regret what had been said, just how it had been said. Little brother has had a crush on me since the first time I knocked on his door by mistake. I knew he did, but I did not pay any attention to it, which was my first mistake. My second, was falling for his best friend. Although I don’t see how I couldn’t have. It took a couple of shots of gin to get us, and a few friends, to play Truth or Dare. NEVER PLAY TRUTH OR DARE, nothing good ever comes out of it. The short list of events that night is stripping, crush telling, crush kissing, the boys promising to not go against bro-code by being interested in me, and finally me and the R.A. hooking up in a closet. (I know: Really Classy). Oh, and I almost forgot the best part: a boxing match for who got to finish the bottle of gin. (My freshman, Essence, won! I’m such a proud Big). Alcohol has a way of doing that to you: making you say things you want to say—your darker thoughts. Of course, it always comes out in the worst possible way. I sit across the table from my two favorite men. I know I’m going to have to pick a side. I stare at them desperate to catch a glance, but all I see is them glaring across the table from each other trying to stay on their best behavior to not fight again. I already had to stuff one bloody nose last night. They both used to be such great friends. Friends way before they ever meet me, and now I seem to be the thing that will drive them apart. I can’t let this happen. I won’t. I hope.

I got up from our deathly quiet table, threw twenty bucks down and left. I see both of them around campus every once in a while. We smile politely, wave at parties but that was the end of our run. I lost Little Brother and the R.A.They, as far as I know, don’t speak anymore either. Not only did I ruin my own relationships, I managed to take another down with me. I lost two of the people closest to me, and I drink more then I used to.

*Four Months Later*

After several weeks of avoidance, and awkward classes, the R.A. and I grew closer and eventually started dating. But our friendship with Little Brother has been severely damaged we can both still hang out with him, just not at the same time. I’ve decided its best to limit my interactions with him, and that breaks my heart, but I just don’t love him that way. I never will. I do love him, but I know that he will not be cool with that for a good while. I’m willing to wait I just hope he can forgive his best friends.

A Quest to Live Forever

Allison Black

I need to start with the very clear statement that I love writing. I love writing in much the same way people love food: on top of just enjoying it, I also need it. Writing is my hobby, passion, calling, and every other word for “thing you do a lot.” It is everything to me. Last I counted a year ago, I have 200 word files on my laptop, and that’s not counting the numerous journals I own, or the ones I’ve lost. I have constantly been throwing sloppy words on pages, trying to define and compose myself in a more literary sense.

The thing is, I’ve never actually had anything published. Frankly, I’ve only ever submitted a couple of things in the hopes of having them published, so it’s not so surprising that most of my stories haven’t seen the light of day. The best was a short horror story in seventh grade that my teacher read to the class that they all liked, but have probably forgotten all about by now. The important take away though, was that I loved the knowledge that everyone knew and liked this thing I’d created, and, by extension, me.

I think the trouble comes from that classic fear and dream of every artist: being known. To receive recognition and praise for your work is the greatest sensation I know, and I’m constantly chasing it. Sharing my writing, the writing I really care about, is a very difficult thing though. A piece of me is in every character I create. Some flaw, passion, or just a quirk. It makes them more human, and it makes me understand why they are who they are. They become a proxy for working through problems I have, usually something mental or emotional. To publish one of my stories is to invite an audience to my personal therapy session.

On top of my fear of being known, I also have the fear of being unknown. It started when my mom was showing us scrapbooks and photo albums of her childhood, and I came to the realization I didn’t have that. Whole years of my life with barely any physical evidence aside from my presence in the immediate moment. But I am not now who I was years ago. So, technically, I didn’t really exist as a whole person. Within a few seconds of looking at some pictures of my mom at the county fair, I came to the conclusion that when I die, I will cease to exist and I will be insignificant.

In my World Lit class, we read the epic of Gilgamesh. Aside from being academically significant, it’s also a brilliant story about seeking immortality. He ultimately fails in the pursuit of literal immortality, but we had a whole class discussion on how ironic it was that he failed in the story, but we were still talking about him, centuries later, therefore making him immortal in a more abstract sense. That resonated with me a lot. Gave me a mild panic attack due to the existential dread, but most things do.

I became obsessed with finding a way to stick around. If I can’t literally live forever, I would like a better piece of me than some staged family pictures to go on in my place. I have a personal photo album now, and I went on a feral hunt through loose pictures for anything containing me to put it together. But, as nice as those pictures are, can they really capture me?

It’s a superstition that someone taking your picture can steal your soul, but I’ve never really seen myself in any picture. I half wish they really captured me, because then at least I’d exist on and on a little while longer. The fact of the matter is that I needed something more encompassing, but how does one capture and entire person, or at least their majority?

Assuming you’re reading this now, you’re holding the answer. Writing is such a large part of me, I can think of no better way to preserve who I am. I don’t need to be important. I just need to be known. I can die happy in obscurity as long as I have the knowledge that somewhere, maybe in a dollar bin at a used book store, my words are laid bare for someone else, someone I will never meet, but who will know me.