I'm not okay.
Trust me.
…
The picture came up about a week ago.
I don't know how it surfaced, but somehow everyone in school is now looking at a pleasant picture of me with bloodshot eyes, my top half off, and a bar behind me.
It looks as if there must be nearly ten drug-addicts surrounding me, most of which I know the names of.
There's Mark and Chris to the left, who are so fucked up it's not even to the point where I've been.
Then there's Jodie and Jake, who coincidentally both have names that start with the letter "J". Apparently they've been friends since freshman year, but who says they have enough sense to remember how long it's been?
There's Dahlia and Billy, who don't know each other at all, but have been sitting next to each other at the same bar for years doing who knows what.
Steven is reaching up Harper's skirt, he has a funny smile on his face that makes me laugh, and Harper is completely oblivious, because she is passed out. Her face is slumped onto some other girls shoulder, and her body is limp.
What the fuck were we thinking, anyway?
That it would be fun?
Well, it was.
But now what?
My best friends in the world are staring at me as if I'm a stranger who they haven't known for three years of college, and everyone else is avoiding me in the halls.
Fuck you.
As if you didn't have some crazy times in your past.
Maybe I had a little bit more of a crazy time.
But I cleaned it up. Right? A lot of people don't even bother to do that.
And I did.