Drunk, After Party

I’m a solo cup of rum and butter and cider in and I feel the warmth hit my stomach like a bomb.

I just can’t escape the trenches.

I ask her, “Do you want to leave?” because, despite her sobriety, she’s nodding off on the damp stoop.

“I’m fine,” she says. That’s all she ever says.

So, okay, I go beer after beer deep.

On my third (?), a tall lanky guy who introduces himself as _____ stops in front of us. I first notice his costume; mistake it as Waldo “humping” a leprechaun but he corrects me–he’s riding a leprechaun. He comments on my t-shirt, he asks what I thought about the remake. We talk. He seems stable. Nice. Sober, because he has to drive an hour and a half home.

“You drove over an hour for this?” I ask.

Fast-forward.

The warm feeling has burned out but the inebriation in my brain is full force. I’m socially lubricated and my body is loose. I’m leaning against the wall, I’m laughing at stupid things I overhear. I’m talking to a kid who is younger than me but graduated with a four-year degree sooner than me. We went to high school together. I’m friends with his ex. I have reason to dislike him; I do dislike him.  Yet, his stupid banter and commonality between academia is much needed at this time in the night. Him and his girlfriend are even more of a social lubricant.

“Gangster.”

“Can I buy a cig off you?”

“Mugwort.”

“The competitor of Uber.”

They start playing a live rendition of “Say It Ain’t So” by Weezer and I tap my foot against the stoop.

My old neighbor, younger than me, probably has an IQ of 150, has travelled all over the world, is as lifeless as I remember him being even back when we were small and played house and I got a mouthful of sand and dirt in my mouth and he kissed me.

His house was full of secrets and dimness and smelled like sugared cereal.

I have moments of introspective drunkenness.

It hurts. Vaguely.

My ex-neighbor sort of encourages me to take a Jello shot. Sure, I’m all about having more vivid dreams. I like to remember pain. I usually forget. I swallow a slice of clementine. The Jello is slightly bitter, slightly sweet, and a vivid orange. Where’s Waldo joins me–this pleases me.

I feel dumb.

She and I go back out for one last smoke. I tell her, I’ll talk to him before we leave. Before we leave, though, he’s walking out and we’re telling him to have a good night.

There’s a certain kind of loneliness the stems from being intoxicated, even if you’re having a good time. There’s a moment–perhaps you’re in the bathroom, or you’re having a cigarette, or reaching into the fridge for another beer, or standing against the wall. But it’s there. It reaches up into your  brain and tugs on your flaws, your insecurities, your hopes, your dead dreams.

In two years, two months, two weeks, two days, two hours, this moment, this night, this experience–it will not matter.

 

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Less Than.

On my days off I sleep for ten+ hours, which is excessive and gross. I blame my new schedule, work, and my medication (the Latuda, specifically, which I recently increased and does nothing except make me more anxious). I want to decrease my dosage, against my doctor’s orders, but as bad as the side effects are now, I don’t want to know what the withdrawal will be like.

Jealousy permeates me to the core. I feel bad because I’m making others feel bad. No one wants to listen to someone tear themselves down, and incidentally blame others for their shortcomings, but it’s become habit for me now. I just looked at myself in the bathroom and was proud of the new glute muscle I’ve achieved–I’ve never had an ass before–but then immediately thought about how my best friend, who is more beautiful than I could ever dream to be, started doing squats so really, it doesn’t matter how many wall-sits or squats I do, or how toned my arms are, because I will always be the less attractive one.

It’s hard to be constantly surrounded by and associated with such beautiful people when you are not included in that sentiment. I know my friends don’t see it that way–how could they? I’m one of them, in their eyes, but I am not.

The thing is, it’s not as if I’m not trying. It’s just more effortless for other people. I have to try and look socially acceptable and I barely manage to do that, and I certainly do not pass for “attractive.” For my friends, they don’t have to do much. One of them doesn’t even wear makeup. The other lost weight because her medication decreased her appetite, so she just doesn’t eat. The other is just naturally alluring, but I haven’t quite figured out why.

This sounds pitiful, it really does, to go on and on about being less-than. But I know what I am.

Fat People Are Still People

I’ve been binge-watching New Girl on Netflix (don’t judge me too harshly – I know it’s a terrible show, I’m just in a bad state of mind and want something stupid to kill time) and in the last episode I watched, there was a flashback scene to one of the male roommates, the currently-cut, working, sleeping-with-a-model Jewish frat boy, when he was fat. He was on the couch, making out with a girl, also fat. Of course, this scene was intended to be funny. Fat people are funny, right?

As someone who’s basically always been overweight, this portrayal of “fat people” on TV and in movies is quite aggravating. Rebel Wilson, Melissa McCarthy, even “Fat Monica” from Friends…the list of “fat characters” and “fat actresses” (and actors, but in particular, actresses, let’s be real) goes and on and on and there is one common factor: all of the characters are meant to be, pun intended, big fat jokes.

Fat people portrayed in the media are not portrayed like “thin” people or rather, “normal” people. “Normal” people and characters are allowed to have romantic and sexual feelings, have good and “normal” sex with other “normal” people, go on dates, have good jobs, and are treated fairly in the world, generally speaking. Fat people and characters, on the other hand, are not allowed to have romantic or sexual feelings – that would humanize them too much. A “normal” man going on a date with a “fat” girl? That’s a joke. Literally. It’s okay for the guy to fall in love with the nerdy girl, but never the fat girl. It’s okay for the girl to fall in love with the nerdy “nice” guy, but never the fat guy.

I know people have discussed this on the internet time and time again, but I actually never felt personally affected by it until today. Because I am insecure. And I am “fat”. And seeing these sad, inaccurate, hurtful portrayals of “fat” people in the media only fuels my own personal thinking that I AM NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE ROMANTIC OR SEXUAL FEELINGS. And that’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. But it seriously just makes my own argument stronger in my twisted, emotionally damaged, fat mind – why should someone ever take me seriously or love me or want to be with me and how dare I want someone or want to be loved or want to be taken seriously when I am fat?

Fat people are still people. We do have feelings. We do fall in love. We do want to be loved back, also. And I, among others, really need to learn that that is okay.

– Z