I got tired of studying, hence I started writing. This is again something personal. Too personal. And offensive. Please don't read this and think I gave you a license to judge me. I am only indulging in the freedom of writing.

I wanted to tell this story primarily because I like hearing myself talk, I mean of course, figuratively. The cogs in my head are loud, and writing gives it a linear direction instead of thoughts bouncing inside my head. And I am in no way encouraging people to view me as someone relatable or despicable. I find that in my writing, I can be myself… whatever that means.

I have many things wrong about me and perhaps at one point in my life I thought it was my selling point. What is more bad than being rotten? And has society not been glorifying the desecration of the spirit? I am bad to the bones… and not really. I wish sometimes I can be good. But my soul is a minefield and I am more volatile than I wish I was. I just get so angry like bear trap I snap at heels with the intent to dismember. I don’t know. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t such an emotional quicksand.

There is of course a point of origin. My life was a hell hole and what is to be expected than to fill my soul with sand and pretend I have foundation. I have none. My earliest memory is my father beating my mother. Not that there wasn’t provocation. But then again as the human law this only mitigates the damages, not resolve it. I will not get into that.

But here my soul is hollow on the inside, and I relate human connection with something heavy and that drags you in different direction with hooks buried in your palms and heel. Ripping at you until you hear the first tear. Shwack.

I realize that friendships I’ve had were hollow, to the point that I am still amazed to find people who are willing to help me, who get offended that I don’t ask for help. Those who I came to love so reluctantly, resentfully. My heart. It isn’t meant for affection. It’s meant to be filled with hurtful anger. The bear trap should have no feelings.

Now there are of course many things I have done to be bad… as I understood it. Alcohol was something I have been dependent on very young, too young… around 10 years old or 11… All I know was that it was way too early to be misled with intoxication, specially when I had no direction at that age. But the sway of my alcohol-filled head made me feel like that the world was not upright because it was meant that way. It was meant that way. Beer. My friends drank and thought it made them cool. And I did too. But primarily I drank beer because it made me feel like an adult. To taste that bitter malt on my tongue, and feel the burn of ethanol down my throat… Endurance. How it tasted like puke. How I wanted nothing else but to throw up. But I held it down like I held down the pretence that I was okay to live in an empty hovel, my mother working to support us, to provide a life she believes his children deserved. My father in a different country providing to a family he was soon resenting. My house was empty and filthy and sad. No one was there except me. The silence was so much better than the fighting… the constant fighting over how worthless this life was, of regret of life lived and given. But still it was a place I belonged, empty and dirty and I wanted to grow up and go away. That was my dream. Friends exchange who they want to be, and I just want to grow up and not be chained to dysfunctionality I was born to. And with the first haze of drunkeness, my hands numb, it felt almost, almost like I can fly.

There was something enigmatic about being rotten, like somehow I am an undiscovered diamond in the rough. Romantic relationships sprung like ephemeral spring. I am a fairly attractive person, I have a fairly attractive face, and my -all personality was somehow viewed as something endearing. Maybe boys thought I was someone redeemable. Or maybe they just wanted an easy lay. I was never really sure.

But then again, I am not playing victim. And it wasn’t like they used me for my uality… I think in that line of thinking, I never saw myself as an object. I have a life and I chose to destroy it as I should. And I liked attention. I loved infatuations and flirting. It made me feel like I am worth something, more than I could imagine myself to be. It doesn’t matter.

A friend of mine, a guy told me, that this path to self-destruction was destroying my future. What kind of man would marry a ? I don’t consider myself a but then again what are other people for but people who brand you by their standards. I don’t give a . I tell him, it’s not like I want to marry. I never want to marry. There is no happily ever after. There is only misery and short reprieve of shallow happiness before swallows you whole. That is life. That is my reality.

I enjoyed being a fancy of a boy, who would shower me with praises. And it’s not like I exchanged attention for ual favours. I like . It’s nice. If you know how to do it, gratification isn’t at all elusive. None of those fantastical imagination of emotional bonding, but that delicious, visceral release. I smoke after each time. Watch the smoke curl above my head, creating a cloud, like I am god.

I enjoy , and it’s not like I feel bad after like I have sinned or . I am morally ambiguous and I never actually do things that make me feel guilty. My home life was like a prison of youth, so out there in the world, I chose to be free.

And I am not saying that this is something that everyone should do… or not do… I chose to do this, not from the influence of media… or maybe I wish to believe that. At least I want to believe that my life had horns and I take it by the antlers.

There are so many boy stories, I can keep them in the handful. All of them mostly fond memories. Even the times when i am a dumb , I enjoyed it. My head tells me I enjoy these stories because no one really had an emotional hold on me. All of them exes a trophy, a triumph. I have never been broken up with.

The story I like the most right now is about a boy I have encountered when I was fifteen and we finally become something after a three-year flirting. Of him telling me to take him home, make him mine… and all that nonsense with ual innuendos. He was so popular, the list of women who liked him would make your head spin. And just standing next to him would illicit me haters. I liked him, maybe for his notoriety the most, and because when he smiled at me. I knew he was smiling at me.

He once told me if I was a e, he would give me all his money. Which of course, as an emotionally tattered person I found sweet. I still laugh at myself. Now, he was of course extremely physically attractive, I mean that subjectively. He was tall and lanky and he danced with that natural sway that was hypnotizing. I liked him. We didn’t date, we hanged out. I liked running my hand through his hair of midnight silk. He was beautiful like a dream.

He was an incredible flirt, and his kiss was always teasing. Everything with him was a game and everything about us was honest to the point that we tell each other of other interests on other people. He was in love with a girl for five years who he had never had the guts to pursue, and I was… interested in another guy, then another. We were each others distraction. We held hands when we were alone, but I am thinking right now, how our relationships were never for anyone else's benefit but ourselves. It was beautiful in a sense. In a distorted kind of way.

I don’t claim to know him, or for him to know me. He just tells me I’m pretty, or y, or whatever the hell was appropriate at that moment. And I tell him I want him, not like or love, want, not ually either, but his presence, his arbitrary affection.

We play this game where he hooks up with a girl and he tells me to win him over. I would not play this game if I didn’t know I was going to win. I always win. He knows me, the conquest of winning him always made his mouth of mint extra icy. He always smelled nice, tasted nice. He was a very grand conquest.

My friends only vaguely know of our relationship. They only know that when I ask him to come, he always does, and when I decided to date someone more seriously, he asked to go to field where he laid his head on my lap, held my hand and told me goodbye.

It was probably the closest to a break up I’ve ever been but there was no bitterness, only gratitude, of the truth he gave me, in the obscurity of half-committed interest.

He was not a boyfriend. But possibly the kindest relationship I’ve had. It took him two years to get a girlfriend… an actual girl friend he didn’t just play with. I thought he deserved better… which may lie on the bitter ex domain. It didn’t matter. He probably is the only person I could label “ex” and is still a friend… because our fondness of each other wasn’t labelled and the expectation hung in the air like abandoned smoke that dissipated in air.

And I don’t know…. this relationship, I may have never gotten into if I wasn’t so emotionally crippled. And I would regret it, regret missing out on winning him over a number of girls. He actually made me feel like I am better than other people… which was a lie. But then again what is true, what is just a thing we choose to believe.