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“No Ma ,I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

…

“Yes I’ll be responsible.”

…

“Yes, bye.”

…

“Yes...”

…

“…yes.”

…

“Yeeeeesssss, bye.”

The usual routine I’d have to follow with my mother whenever I go out. I hate the fact that I’m told to be responsible, as if had I not been told, my life would’ve been dramatically different.

“oh no, don’t mind me.  I’m just jumping into a pool of radioactive sharks because my mother failed to tell me to be responsible”

1998-2014
Here Lies IAN OVERMARS
Died from Not Being Responsible

 

Most of my outings weren’t so much for the going out, but more for the getting out of this house. Between my overbearing sister, brother and mother (who I all (by requirement of an unseen document I signed when escaping the womb) love dearly), eventually it becomes too much. My sister, Sabrina, is constantly on my case about one thing or another, which in itself pisses me off, but also it’s ALWAYS something she’s being hypocritical for.

*One week after she lets me sleep through a movie I’ve been dying to watch, which I don’t complain about (because to be fair, yeah ,sure, I should’ve woken up by myself), but…*
“HOW COULD YOU NOT WAKE ME UP FOR THE KARDASHIANS FINALE??? YOU’RE SO SELFISH AND THINK ABOUT NOBODY OTHER THAN YOURSELF!”

Or

*On her birthday, after not getting me anything for my birthday (even though she has a job and I DON’T)*
“Wow, thanks for the NOTHING you got me. I really appreciate just how much I mean to you. Really, thanks.”

My brother Simon. Well, he’s not too much of an issue. Except for the fact that I really, really, really want to pull my eyeballs out my skull every time he breathes in my damn direction. Not only is he so naïve about everything around him (he’s 7, but trust me , it’s not a valid excuse. I ,too, was once 7, and not like this), also, he has the loosest grip on the concept of NO SNITCHING that I have EVER, and I mean EVER (and I mean like comparison to the annoying girls you had to put up with in first grade who couldn’t help but complain to the teacher while you’re just innocently trying to put worms in another kid’s lunch) seen.

My problem with my mother, well…

To my fellow mental illness peeps, ever had to deal with someone who doesn’t at ALL understand, or at the very least show some sympathy towards, someone with it? Not only is the lack of sympathy and any understanding annoying, the assumptions, oh God, the damn assumptions. I’d rather spend a week locked in a room with BOTH my siblings than have to deal with people like this. If you can't really relate to the feeling, you’re most like that person and my advice to you is: STOP. The constant judgement of my age versus my seemingly long list of problems, the constant disappointment in the fact that I won’t just get over it.

This is all why I needed to just not be at home. It was as close I could come to not existing without having to do the (seemingly) foul deed of ridding oneself of one’s life, or, more commonly referred to a suicide. It’s suicide without the sweet release of death, without the guilt of thinking about my family seeing my lifeless body(which ,to be honest, wouldn’t be doing much less than my alive self is actually doing) and without having to actually have the courage to go through what would (probably) make me happiest. It’s like standing in the line for Disney World but for some reason you’re extremely afraid to show your ticket and pass the gates. Why?

Well on one hand, what if religious people are right about Disney World , and that if I, uhm, buy my own ticket to get in , I automatically go to the rather disappointing and cruel Disney World and I'm there forever.
But there’s also the possibility of me buying my own ticket and getting just what I want on the other side. NOTHING. That’s all I really want. A trip to Disney World , filled with absolutely nothing!

 

But I suppose Greg’s house will have to do.

 

As I arrive in front of his house and open the door for the Uber, out he comes, crazy haired as ever.

“Ay, c**t, how goes it?” Yes, c**t was his term of endearment, which to any other person may seem offensive, but the word has become a playful, cheery term in our friend circle. Well his circle. My ‘circle’ is two separate lines; one leading to him, and the other to my friend Leo.
I respond with a smirk.

I’m not the materialistic sort of dude, but GOD I can't ever get over how much I really like that Greg is rich. The fact that we go to the same school bothers me. The fact that we eat the same food even bothers me. The fact that we’re from the same planet bothers me more. My family is alright financially, so I have quite a clear view of the differences between myself, less fortunate people and the Gregs of the world. If you aren’t quite rich, you’re, by default, just a tad envious of people who are able to buy what they want, when they want. Some people’s envy even pushes them to the point of flat-out hating rich people. Nay, not just some, it’s quite a common thing. Humans are ugly.

Me on the other hand, I hate everyone equally, but even if I hated the rich for being rich, I could never hate Greg. Yes, he was given an abundance of money by the Currency Gods, but he was also spoiled by the Mentally Blegh Demons. Anybody would be lucky to have him in their Fantasy Mental Illness team. Fortunately, he's on mine. Well skilled in the field of apathy, not too shabby with his depression skills, but he's every FMI team manager’s dream when it comes to the art of paranoia.

“C**t, I think that cop I saw at the mall the other day is following me.”

“The one who apparently saw your red eyes from about 7 metres away, through your glasses, and through a crowd of people?”

“Dude, it was clear that I was high! He knew! I’m telling you, he knew!”

“Mmm hmm. And what would make you think he's following you?”

“I heard sirens ,c**t.”

“You heard sirens…”

“Yeah.”

“So you didn’t see him, nor did you have any proof that said sirens had anything to do with you?”

“Yeah.”

“…But you’re convinced it was him, and that he's following you?”

“Yeah.”

“Got it.”

At this point, God is chuckling. So why am I specifically friends with Greg? Well…
That question has no actual answer per se, he just really understands me and I understand him, whether it be views on the world, our sense of humour, music taste, you name it, we understand it. And we also relate on a personal level when it comes to our ‘futures’. We both plan on growing up to be successful failures; him in a comedy career, me in music. Problem is every once in a while I fear that he may abandon the joint-venture of being successful failures, and actually become a successful success; he’s really much more talented than he(or anyone) gives him credit for.

 

“So, Ian, your girlfriend?”

“My f*****g what?”

We both laugh at my shock. (Perhaps I should be the comedian).

“Haha, so still no luck on that front then?”

“Uhm. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I may be moving backwards from where I was.”

“That’s… Wow…”

“Hey, some of us don’t have two genders to choose from.”

Disclaimer: Greg is bisexual.

“That’s not even a valid excuse, c**t. I’ve dated three girls in the past three months. You?”

“…I’ve finished three games in the past three months.” I shrug.

“Well, there’s school in a week, perhaps you’ll meet someone?”

“HA! Date someone from that cesspool? Bruh, really now?”

“Hey, you never know. Once upon a time we weren’t friends. In that same damn school. S**t can happen.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, s**t can in fact happen. Who knows, there might even be a new student or two this year that I can show off my impressive social awkwardness and anxiety to. Oo, and once they’ve been swept off their feet by awkward silences, I woo them completely with self-depreciating comments disguised as jokes, girls love that s**t.” Really, I should be the comedian here. Greg just rolls his eyes.

“Anyways, so the agenda for today-“

“We get drunk”

“We get crunk”

“Talk too loud”

“And pass the f**k out”

This is what we did every visit. Just spoke. Whether we’d just speak while being sober or while being drunk or high, or high and drunk. There always seemed to be an aspect of life we’d be able to delve deep enough into to take up the space of at least two hours, then we’d bounce off to a new topic for another two, throw in an old nostalgic story, then rinse and repeat. Never got old.