Whatever I Have Lost (Chs.3&4)

Chapter 3

I am in the bathroom brushing my teeth and this is always a not-so-good-feeling-almost-hurtful-feeling the mornings after I drink a lot. But not just a lot, enough to warrant sleeping on the couch because only in that drunken stupor can this couch seem special. Retarded special and nostalgic like the worst kiss I’ve ever had. Come to think of it I can’t remember the worst kiss. Its 3:19 a.m. and maybe after I sleep it might come to me. I feel real bad now. I was kind of nauseous when I woke but now I know I will throw up. When I think of a gag reflex I am immediately taken back, in that Ghost-of-Christmas-Past-way, to freshman year of college. A girl threw up of this guy’s dick. You take it from there. But right now I am trying not to throw up and am thinking of all the times I have not thrown up brushing my teeth whilst feeling exactly like this. Almost exactly like this. I know I will throw up and I know when it will happen. I will not stop it because I woke up on the fucking couch today and I am going to graduate the school Obama shuns. If he only knew I’m a baller and he could have been one too if he knew me.
I go into my room and start to get ready for the struggle and hurt. Deciding to put on a white, short-sleeved button down shirt, I can’t decide the tie to accompany it but I know it doesn’t matter yet because I must see what Rooney is wearing.
“What are you going to wear?”
He answers and I realize that I am my own person and must do the same. But different. Bright yellow hi-top sneakers, new Nike Oxy Lacrosse shorts, and my favorite “Welcome to Brooklyn” shirt with a huge black middle finger because I’m private school thuggin’ for Heaven’s Ghetto. Even with that shit they still can’t see me; I can’t even feel my face! I’m fresh to death and that death is for my parents. They hated it. The funny thing is that when I finally saw them that day my mother commented on how she could point out all my friends: a group of kids dressed as if it were not their graduation. But how does that look?

Chapter 4

Okay, so I’m fitted and now retrieving the anonymity: cape and gown. Heavy as fuck, I might add, as if Occidental forgot its meaning and we weren’t in So Cal where the sun is a registered sex offender. Turning the swag on to be one with the nausea, I make it back to the pride lands, sit down and wonder if some dudes are going to call to take some shots before IT happens. It ain’t the toothbrush that kills. Seagram’s baby! They do. Its my people and we are about to consummate the day before it happens—that sneak attack. Four roll through and seven makes the crowd in the kitchen. Having little to no clean apparatuses, the momentous toast is one staggered like a relay race for those who jump the gun. Get it how you live. I take a pull from this fine New Amsterdam handle. On some real shit, they live up to their advertisement: you can really drink it straight. I mean here is the part where I throw up but it was long overdue. Really on that “its not you its me” thing. And when chicks say that it really doesn’t make sense. It never will. Its bullshit. But I get it.
I’m done pulling. Now, I was one of the farthest in the kitchen and must past people to occupy the nearest bathroom. I tell them I’m going to throw up. The response: “Really?”
“Yeah, hold up.”