You know you're high beyond belief when you think something along the lines of: where am I?
There are two cases of Where am I Syndrome. The first being if you have a wild night and wake up with a complete black-out of what happened. The second—which is far worse, in Dante's opinion—being when the black-out's fade in random intervals, one moment you're at a club and the next you're hunched over a curb outside. One moment you're hunched over a curb, the next you're cackling in the back of a taxi cab. One moment you're in the back of a taxi cab and the next you're in some unknown basement, fucking some unknown girl. This'll happen periodically throughout the night, one place to the next, with little recollection of what went on and not enough inhibitions to care.
Dante a born and bread club kid, learning the tricks of the trade from his older bother, living in his legendary party shadow. All the kids at school looked to him for excitement and adventure, thought he had all the answers to everything. He was The Kid, the one that was thought to be infallible, could get out of any situation unscathed. Hosted parties, crashed others, was notorious for sneaking into every nightclub up and down California, knew which raves were hot tickets, could charm any teacher (males included) into giving an extension, prided himself in being the cock king of Fortuna High.
Girls left and right throwing themselves onto his arm—one date, just one date. Trish said you fucked Lady, what's Lady have that I don't?—riding him in bed every weekend, screaming his name as moans bounced off the walls. With their tight dresses and caked on makeup, high pitched bitch sessions when he suddenly dropped off the side of the earth the next day. They all said it was his fault—his fault. His fault they were all so screwed up, his fault they felt dirty and used.
If it was so traumatizing, if it was his fault, then why did they all insist on parading around school, bragging about who they bagged last night—oh, yeah, it was huge! Totally not even kidding, I had him clutching the headboard for support—gossiping little whispers worse than any guy was capable of. Because...at least they kept it in the locker room.
But weeks later the fury never seemed to fail, they'd all come and make a scene, call him names and ask him why, why did he take their virtues? To which Dante always wanted to defend himself, remind them of how they danced around him, begging him to give them a chance, wore tight mini dresses that rode up when they walked too fast, pulled him into the nearest empty room and shoved him on the nearest empty surface, then point in their faces and ask them why, indeed. But he didn't, his best friend always held him back and shook his head, let the girl smack him across the face with hurt that any actress would envy, let them call him all the names in the book.
And for what? For another weekend of partying? Another nameless girl to fuck, another nearest empty something, another black out forgotten?
Pause.
Skip.
The video plays back again.