There is literally a moment every day when I question if I do in fact have some form of high functioning autism. Invariably the thought crosses my head, but not “retarded”* in the cool will.i.am/Fergie way. Retarded in the way that I think an appropriate response to a female friend’s dissection of a horrific gynecology appointment with “Hey, I could do that!,” while her boyfriend looks on, bewildered.
The other day, during one of those transcendent moments you can only get by hitting a 3’6” acrylic bong filled with ice (not that I own one of those – and even if I did, it would used solely for tobacco – and even if it wasn’t, it would never be marijuana), I realized this: maybe it’s time to mature.
It wasn’t that it hadn’t occurred to me before. There had been an instance only last weekend when, in the midst of particularly rowdy bit of intoxication, I had proceeded to tell the host all my horrendously explicit sexual desires towards a woman I was pining for. Which, by itself, would have been fine if the woman in question hadn’t also been the host’s sister. It was while I was hiding in a closet while my other friends calmed down the host – one of my dearest friends – that I realized perhaps I had crossed a line.
Oh no, I don’t regret blurting what probably sounded like incoherent cut scenes from a Swedish porn film (Dude, I didn’t even tell you what I did with the cucumber yet!). That is pretty normal to anyone who knows me and comes from a deep seated desire for attention and blah blah blah Freud blah blah blah. But what I do regret is that, due to the incident and a couple (read: hundreds) of others, I am now associated with a being an alcoholic troublemaker.
Now this means I can get away with many things other people can’t, because for the most part everyone expects it. You know you’ve raged right when you’re friends are SHOCKED that you are not having a party this weekend and instead watching the premiere of “Breaking Bad.” However, on the other hand, the cost seems to be the trust of everyone.
The thing that galls me, and perhaps you relate, is the insane sense of judgment from close friends who partake in the same thing. For example, at the same party, one drunken bro demanded a girl cuddle with him. After she put him down gently – and then harshly – he retreated to a corner and faced the wall for the rest of the night. Talk about a mood killer.
But let’s be serious; this is clearly nobody’s fault. Not me, for my excessive dedication to fun and admittedly rude behavior. Not my peers for their constant judgment and ignorance.
I would like to assign all blame hereto forth unto Ohio University. Yes, you OU. You are the reason I got that D in statistics. It had nothing to do with my complete apathy, lack of studying, and continual absenteeism. Nor does it have anything to do with my daily dalliances with the night scene, hitting bars, house parties, and orgies. No, none of that had ANYTHING to do with that D and my reputation henceforth as a sociopathic, irresponsible partyboy.
Now I don’t mind being thought of as a guy who likes to party and partake in what some people, such as policemen, judges, and juries, would consider illegal or potentially dangerous. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that we are defined by our actions and not our words. I guess the result from this confessional is that either I need new friends or I need to show some goddamn restraint in future partymaking endeavors. Even reading that sentence makes me want to punch myse- (PUNCH)
With that out of the way and sense now knocked into me, I can only conclude one constant in this equation of debauchery: me. Maybe it’s time to do both. Maybe it’s time to make new impressions on new people instead of trying to change old ones with old people.
One of the many things I’ve learned this summer is this: everything in moderation – except when you want to let loose. Don’t forget how to have fun without all the extra stuff. Find people who you can share that with and keep the rest who don’t separate. The sad fact is: people judge like motherfuckers, man and just because it’s a part of your life, does not mean you need to publicize it. I’m sure my gracious host from earlier would love to not know what I would’ve or could’ve done with that cucumber. It will save you (and me) a lot of drama, which is like death to a party as a picture of your grandma is to a boner. In the meantime, it’s time to expand some fucking horizons!
With all of that in mind, I pose the question to any reader brave enough to answer: what did you do when you were stuck in an old reputation with new feelings?
Sam Flynn writes, and apparently punches himself in the face, in Athens, OH. You can find his previous ranty ravey column entries here.
Photo by Patrick Griffith, master of lasers and lenses.
*Editor’s note: I hate this word, but this is mild and Sam makes up for it. There’s a point here, people. -AM