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Straight-A Party Monster

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I never thought I would have that side of me And by that, I mean I never thought after all my honor classes and volunteer camps, I would become a  “crazy, careless, wild party child” at night. But sometimes, life forces you to adapt in order to survive. How can you not go insane after studying for eight hours in your room? How can you not go release yourself after tirelessly preparing for quiz after quiz and test after test? Most of all, how can you not live after feeling dead for two years?  I realized that the only way I could keep up my excellence in life and not hating everything I do is by relieving my stress. Not by using anything that would harm me or others around me, of course.


Those violent streaks of light and incredibly loud music rattles my blood  every weekend. I love how notes of deep, dark bass vibrates through the room and into everyone’s hearts. The darkness gives me so much safetly. The flood of darkness hides the hideous masks everyone wears during the day. And because we can’t see as well, those masks come off and we all become our true selves. The beauty in pure, honest, imperfections. The cackling sound of loud drunken voices and cackling laughter resonates around the room. Every smile I see seems to lift my own lips up into a curve. I feel young and alive, and in a long time, I was ready to stay alive. Dancing the night away never gave my mind and body more liberation. My limbs are naturally attracted to the fast paced beats of popular rap songs. Each  word seems to strike an instinct in my muscles. Oh how I love the people at parties. Every one of them so different and trying their own best to stand out. From my own friends dancing outrageously in the center of the room to attractive guys I flirt with, having all those people around me just gave me a sense of security. Maybe not security, maybe I just didn't feel alone anymore.


And whether it’s because I never had a proper father figure in my life or my own  tragic desire to be loved, my connections with the guys I meet at parties always sparks a fire inside. I drown in their attention and fake love. I want to talk and talk until we fade away into the night. Because when I do, I have the illusion that they would fall in love with who I am. That’s what I’m searching for at these parties. I’m looking for genuine love. I’m looking for someone who cares about me that isn’t obligated to. So every guy that comes up to me, I flutter inside, trying to look my best. I take a deep breath and tell myself to be appealing. I flirt and dance and entertain, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he will be the one. And you wanna know how it always ends?


After dancing for what seems like hours, they will all grab my phone from my back pocket and punch in their contact. I, as the fool I once was, would be incredibly happy and feel as if I’ve found someone who would treasure me. Then after a little while, we talk. Then, I realize how shallow they all were. They didn’t care about me at all, at least not me as a person. For a second, they can always fool me. It was so painful at first. It was painful finding out that someone who thought would care for you actually pays no attention to how they make you feel.


Now, I’m different. I go to parties knowing that the guys I meet will tear me apart after making me feel loved. I head straight for what will absorb me into the bright lights and booming music. I want to fade away in these parties. I would to dance and laugh so hard that I become as thin as air and float away, leaving only a lovely trace of Chanel perfume. Or, I want to dance and laugh so hard that I fall to the ground. That I will faint and forget everything that has ever broken me before. I want to wake up not knowing anything other than the fun I had at the party, ignoring all the pain life had beared. Yet, this doesn’t happen and I know it will never happen. After each party, I go home and lay in bed. Tousled curls droop from the edge of my bed as I lie there. My smudged lipgloss still on and the tears from the corners of my eyes begin to wash off that expensive mascara. I lay there once again in the dark. No more heartbeat bass sounds, no more flashing strobe lights. I lay there on my own, in complete silence. When my parents see me like that, I just mutter “I’m tired,” then shut the door and turn the light off. I would lay there for a long time. My eyes burn because of how hard I am staring into the pure blackness. My eyes search from something that would change how I feel. They search for something that would give me joy and fill me up inside. But on most nights, I am paralyzed in that darkness with tired eyes and a soul, whimpering for someone else to care. 




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