Chapter 22 – Alcohol, Drugs, And Angry Misery

Chapter 22 – Alcohol, Drugs, And Angry Misery

A Chapter by Oscar Blomqvist
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Everything is relative, you’re incredibly affected by what you see and hear around you. And in London, there was a lot to see and hear.

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I had some incredibly weak, drama-queen moments. Not in front of anyone, of course. I was a drama-queen in a way that only introverts can.


Everything is relative, you’re incredibly affected by what you see and hear around you. And in London, there was a lot to see and hear. There was a lot that made me feel socially crippled and essentially like my existence was pointless. I found nerdy, passive-aggressive ways to let off steam, and of course, blame others for my flaws. I came up with the terrible, awful, cowardly idea of becoming an internet vigilante, ruthlessly calling out humanity for its shortcomings. Ok, I actually just wanted to post some of my sad writings somewhere where someone might find them and see me for the genius that I obviously was. 


In truth, I’m not so sure I wanted anyone to ever read what I had written, but I needed to put it somewhere that wasn’t my own laptop hard drive so there was at least a possibility that someone with some kind of publishing power might see it at some point. I’ve tried to remove it since but I can’t remember if I was actually successful in getting rid of it. I might have created a new email for the blog account and forgot the password for it. 


Anyway, I anonymously created a blog and a YouTube channel to share my brilliance with the world called…. The Cold-Blood Prince. THE CRINGE IS F*****G UNBEARABLE, but hey, it’s what happened, let’s just get over it. I was of course some dark, brooding character, misunderstood by society and everyone in it. Much like a certain Half-Blood Prince. For a picture/icon/avatar/what-have-you, I chose a picture of Robert Kennedy, something which still makes absolutely no sense at all. 


I wasn’t exactly fighting for anyone’s civil rights. One night at a club, an establishment which I did actually enjoy going to once or twice when I managed to come out of my shell and let loose but still be very much aware of how I let loose, I retreated to some seats by the wall, sat down and took out my phone and instead of starting to write to pretend I had someone to text and that I wasn’t a sad, lonely mess writing about why I was a sad, lonely mess, I started to film the crowd gyrating on the dancefloor. 


Creepy as all f**k, yes, but nothing that has been said so far in this chapter, or what is about to be said, makes me look good. Hell, this entire book makes me look like a psychotic f**k, what are a few more disgusting words gonna do? Imagine you’re watching a YouTube video so dark you can barely see anything, but by the blaring music and the flashing lights, you’re able to tell that this was filmed in a club of some kind. In the description of said YouTube video, you find this:


Here we see the low intelligent human dance to loud noises because that apparently satisfies the need for human interaction for those without an intellect. You see those people right there. Well, you can’t see them because it’s all so f*****g dark, but they’re in there somewhere. They're ordinary, that's why they connect. They are on the same mediocre level of intelligence which makes them fuckable. They're also good-looking, but that's a whole other matter. That's what gets them their foot in the door to whatever genitals they desire. 

 

But behind that, there's nothing to scare the genitals away. No intelligence, no ideas. And that's why they get to f**k. It makes sense after all. Stupid hot guy f***s stupid hot girl. It all comes together beautifully in the sea of mediocre people that is the vast majority of the world’s population. The rest of us capable of conscious thought get left on the sidelines because we're not on the same court, to begin with. The only people who get with other people in clubs are the people that are better without words, that is to say when they talk you realize how mediocre and pointless they are as humans. In a club with the music turned up high, making your organs vibrate, they are just a piece of flesh, good enough to stick your dick in, but you have the privilege of not talking to them because that will only make you want to throw up.

 

Clubs take out the talking part of meeting people. That's good for most people because they don't have anything of importance to say, but I need intelligence not to starve. Just pieces of meat bouncing in a basement are pointless because they are all just that, pieces of meat. Before you go to a club, you talk about how you're gonna get it, but it's all just talk because once you're there, that's the one thing you can't do. 

 

That's why low intelligent people do well in clubs. They know that this is their playing field. This is where they can flourish, because their greatest weakness can never be discovered, as long as Beyoncé makes your kidneys vibrate like a d***o in a 17-year-old vagina starving for dick. I'm never going to get laid in a club because to get laid in the club, you need a face and a body, scratch that, you just need a body. 

 

I have neither, I have a brain that tells me these things, a brain that tells sarcastic stories about why the body in which said brain resides can't get laid, which is why it will never get laid. So instead of joining in the dancing, I stand by the wall and think, something the people actually dancing will never be capable of, and hence look down upon.

 

In a club, all intelligence goes out the window. I went to a club recently and a friend of a friend joined our group for the night. He was tall, not as tall as me, but tall and handsome, which basically made him think that he was entitled to every p***y in the room. And by the looks of it, he was. Let's call him Waldemar. I wanted to be him and I despised him at the same time. 

 

When blow-up guitars were passed out, he started bopping people on the head with them, which meant “I want to be inside of you.” It was brilliant and rapey at the same time. He made out with countless girls that night, without saying a single word, no intellect whatsoever, just pure animalistic attraction. It was disgusting and beautiful. The disgusting part was that he seemed to make the girls think that he was going to be with them forever and ever even after three seconds of seeing their faces. 

 

When he picked them up, they squealed like four-year-old girls being picked up by daddy, which is just creepy. And in some way, brilliant in a melancholic, nostalgic way. I will never be him and it makes me happy because it means that I'm more than a penis, but it also makes me sad because I will never pull p***y like he can pull p***y.

 

All of this is so cliché, the guy with the body gets the girls, and the nerd stands by the wall trying to get at the problem from an intellectual point of view, it's never gonna work. But the most clichéd thing of all was that the song that was playing as I left the bouncing bodies on the floor to stand in the corner to write this down on my phone was Oasis’s Wonderwall.

 

When I finally threw myself out there on the dancefloor, and by and large my own intellect being left by the wall as I trampled people’s feet just by existing, I understood the point of it, even if I’ll never flourish in that setting. It’s nice to throw away all your thoughts and just jump up and down to the kind of music that will leave you with a ringing noise in your ears for the next 48 hours. It makes you feel a bit less s****y, if only for a while.


I’ll admit, I do still somewhat feel this way, but I’m acutely aware that it makes me rather pathetic, something which I’ve come to almost accept about myself. More than that, I’m happy that I’ve come far enough that I can’t read this little text without laughing at myself.


One day in February 2015, I was hungover like a b*****d so I spent the day reading the book that had dropped through the slit in the front door that morning, which happened to be The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The first hundred pages gave me the impression that Charlie, the main character, was a little b***h who would fall apart at the first glance at adulthood. 


However, when I got to the part where his English teacher Bill says: “Sometimes, people use thought to not participate in life,” I just laughed. Out loud. Because it’s exactly what I’ve been doing my entire life. I can remember saying “I like to observe” on a number of occasions in regards to why I spent my time in the outskirts of any social gathering, especially the ones where you are expected to dance. You really nailed it right there Chbosky, you cheesy dingus.


Once in ninth grade, the teacher asked what we, all three of the gathered ninth-grade classes, thought was the most important attributes in a partner. They all said the stereotypical bullshit. Kind, funny, smart. I stayed quiet. The teacher asked if looks weren’t important, sensing a group of people not living the way they preached. The guy who if he today looks back on his hairstyle and dress sense would probably kill himself said that of course looks were important, but that didn’t make the other stuff not important. 


The hypocrisy. The lies. There are of course exceptions. People who grow hotter than their partner and stay with them anyway because they actually love each other, for instance. I saw a middle-aged couple on the beach one summer. The woman was slim, very attractive. The man was morbidly obese. His neck was long since gone, and his muffin-top was no longer a muffin top but a waterfall, fermenting over his waistline, pushing down his board shorts, forcing him to constantly having to pull them up but still exposing his butt crack every three seconds. 


He had bigger tits than she did, but they seemed genuinely happy together. She held onto him through the waves in the sea, and they laughed and messed around like teenagers. Maybe she was also laughing like a teenager all the way to the bank. Or maybe, just maybe, they actually found real love and real happiness within their super-hot-for-50-and-heart-attack-before-sunrise-relationship. Maybe he was just really funny. Maybe she was really funny too. Maybe they were really funny together. Maybe she had really bad self-esteem and only accepted the love she thought she deserved, another thing Chbosky at least got a little bit right. I’m gonna choose to believe that they were just happy together, and had been for a really long time. Because from the little I saw, it’s the only alternative that makes any sense.


Now I will let my past, raging, cynical, melancholic, morose (Thank you, my Captain) self, argue the opposite:


People, especially people in clubs, always say that sense of humor is the most important thing when looking for a partner. They are all liars who don't want to seem shallow, which of course is what makes them shallow. However, they are usually shallow in intelligence, in the sense that it doesn’t go very far, so if someone has a great sense of humor, the club people most likely can’t appreciate it anyway. B******s. 


When a guy falls in love with a girl, it always starts with just penis feelings, it starts with the need to be inside her, it doesn’t matter how or where, just inside her in any way possible. Physical attraction has always been and will always be, the most important thing in finding a partner. Because the urge to f**k is vital to get over that first hump of talking to people. Sexual frustration is vital to get over that hump. 


Without it, our species would die out. And prostitutes would be unemployed. That's why girls obsess over weight. They ask themselves, Who would ever f**k a fat girl? Exactly who would do that? It's more or less impossible since you need to get that dick hard first, and lumps of flesh hanging over your belt ain't gonna do that. That’s what they think… I think. Society in general of course shares a lot of that blame. And then there are those who are reasonable and realize people have different tastes in everything. 


And the only explanation for that is “Different strokes for different folks.” That's it. I've got some flesh lumps hanging over my belt, always have. Hence, my virginity was intact for waaaay too long if you ask me. Sometimes you look at people and you can't understand how they ever got laid. Tall and lanky is apparently a thing some think is attractive, tall and chubby is “OH MY GOD, HE’S A MONSTER.” Which is true, I am a monster, A MONSTER OF SEXINESS. I can’t contain my sarcasm sometimes. It is a curse.


Sense of humor just can’t be the number one thing, because I’ve seen so many stupid, stupid people drown in p***y. They’re not even slightly funny, they’re so mundane and boring that just hearing them talk for eight seconds makes me want to wrap my balls in barbed wire and jump into a sea of salt. I could’ve become an incel (Involuntary celibate, guys who blame their sexlessness on society and women) but being a feminist easily put a stop to that since I’ve always put rationality way above any kind of feelings. The facts are what they are, I cannot move them around as I see fit. Giving into misogyny didn’t exactly click with the values I had already committed to. So I decided to hate the world in general instead.


The few times I got hopped up on alcohol and drugs, I was so out of it that my night ended prematurely, because somehow when I’m really fucked up, I can still tell when it’s time for me to go home. Although when I try to get myself home in that state, I usually put myself in lethal danger by refusing to get an uber. 


One night in my first year in London when I was drunk out of my mind and one of my nostrils was filled with MDMA (otherwise known as Ecstasy or Molly for you noobs), one of my closest friends (still can’t believe I managed to make those) tried to get me an uber, but I literally ran away from him. I basically fell into the table of hardcore drugs, snorted most of it, and took some selfies I can't remember taking. It was only about a mile between the student halls where I had engaged in these lewd activities and my own halls, and as I usually enjoy a nighttime stroll, the idea of paying for an uber seemed utterly ridiculous. 


I did not take into account that walking becomes harder when you’ve drunk the same amount of straight vodka as the amount of beer you drink on a usual binge. The only memory I have of trying to get home is sliding down against a wall to the ground, sitting there staring at Google Maps on my phone despite having walked these Clerkenwell streets so many times before, but not being able to figure out where I was or where I was going since the screen was just one big blur. So it seems my good judgment go all in one basket, the basket concerning when it’s time to head home, leaving the basket concerning the mode of transportation completely empty. 


Amazingly, I woke up in my own bed the next morning. Not so amazing was that the jeans I was still wearing were covered with mud and that my right calf felt like it was being chewed on by two very hungry tigers. I had no memory of the night before, but a month later when I met my friends again after a break, they filled in the gaps.

“Oh yeah, you snorted ecstasy that night, you were pretty wild.” Someone showed me a picture of myself allegedly just after doing some snorting.

“Why am I so blurry?” I asked.

“Because you were falling.” Ah. Lovely. 


I never learned from my mistakes. After a Halloween party in my final year of university, I was clearly way too drunk to BIKE home, but my drunk self didn’t want to have to come back the next day and pick up my bike as I had done in my more sensible past but instead chose to BIKE home, ninety percent of the way home being next to a CANAL which I was dangerously close to going straight into I can’t remember how many times as I was going just as much sideways as I was going forwards. 


Being off my face drunk, there’s a good chance my swimming capabilities would have been rather limited had I gone in, making drowning a real possibility. Does this make me more likely to leave the bike next time? Of course not, don’t be silly. As we have already established, my life isn’t worth that much, to begin with. Not to me, anyway.






© 2021 Oscar Blomqvist


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Added on March 9, 2021
Last Updated on March 9, 2021
Tags: London, uk, university, journalism, studies, life story, comedy, humor, sex, friendships, school, upbringing, coming of age, alcohol, drugs, anger, anxiety


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Oscar Blomqvist
Oscar Blomqvist

Charlottesville, VA



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I wrote a story. I think it's actually rather good, or at least okay. I thought I would post it here. Let me know what you think - [email protected] more..

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