When I was growing up in South Carolina, I had this friend who had immigrated from Ecuador when he was young. He was a pretty great kid, funny, large personality, intuitive. We use to play under the sun, and make bugs out of gummy candies, with that machine you'd seen in commercials. It was green, and blue, to help distinguish that it was for boys. A few years later, I moved away. Same old story, parents got divorced, etc, etc.
In our next town in North Carolina, I had met this girl named Taylor. She was friendly, and I was impressionable. I was the new kid at school and she was friendly. Obviously we bonded. Taylor and I never hung out after school. Something about how my mom's boyfriend smelled like cigarettes and his van looked unsafe. I liked it because the only seat was the front seat. I never paid attention to the fact that other kids were laughing behind me when Taylor talked to me. We were friends. I was playing on the playground one day, when she got my attention. From behind me, a tennis ball smacked my spine, sent me crippling. Everyone laughed. Including Taylor. I never understood why she high-fived the guy for doing it, or why we never spoke after that. I also picked up a nickname. "F*ggot"
2006, we moved to Maine. Windham, specifically. Another new kid. I actually fit in this time. The nickname stayed in the rear-view with the south. I met two guys that I got kind of close with. Nate, and Tyler. we did a lot together during the day. I never ended up seeing them much after school, but I didn't see the value in that. We were so cool together. I saw them the other day, and there was no attempt in their brain to recognize me. I was forgotten.
I moved again, this time to Naples. We'd move again to Bridgton, yet staying in the school system for my sister. She didn't want to start over again. It's easy to start over, so I dismissed her worries. Until the nickname came back. For two years I wore a imaginary sticker on my chest, that most every other male older than myself called me by. It had something to do with the fact that I liked to write, and use a microphone. I didn't get it.
The friends I made here, I thought we'd be together until we died. We still talk. We laugh. Tag each other on Facebook, and send dumb selfies on Snapchat, but I've lost every one that I can talk to.
I use to be able to stay up late, look at the stars, talk to someone. Like a scene from some teen drama. Drinking whatever we could get our hands on, and laughing about how dumb we were.
The drinking never stopped. There's no more laughing. It's mostly a game I play with myself to help me sleep. There's something to be said for being alone. I've become wiser. Less selfish, yet more self fulfilling. I know what I like, which is also my greatest downfall. I've pushed away most everyone that I've been close to since.
There is no moral to the story. There is no story. There is only a dim lamp with a broken ***, a bottle cap on the floor, and silence looming in the air so heavy.
Attempted to write an upbeat poem. Wrote a depressing short story. Oops.