Ian Matters

It's roughly two weeks before I'm alright enough to act normally again. Sal has, in her own motherly way, banned me from drinking or going out for another two weeks, so I am particularly unhappy like I was when my first pet died. Of course it's probably for the best, not drinking and going out will prevent me from taking anymore happy tumbles off of tables.

I already know I probably won't get through the whole two weeks before I have a drink. I will probably leave in the middle of the night with Dillon and we will probably find a party to go to and I pray I will not fall off of another table.

I'm sitting in the apartment with Dillon and Nick while I'm tending to another painful headache of mine with a bag of frozen peas. I've forbidden them from turning on the television, I told them there was probably nothing good on anyway but you know when you say that all of the good shows are just coming on. Nick in particular likes good television, and I'm not sure why, but it's a good fixation compared to the ones he used to have in high school.

I remember the Nick I met in high school pretty vividly, too. A total dick whose friends were total dicks whose girlfriends had all slept with the entire football team – the usual, stereotypical mean girls of the school, of course. Because you can never get enough of those in a high school, which is the fucking worst.

Anyway, Nick was a soccer player who had more then a ton of fun kicking kids in the shins and smoking weed in the parking lot where everyone could see. He got suspended quite a bit for it too, the principal never saw it fit to kick the guy out of his school for god knows why, I guess they needed his athleticism to win tournaments.

It was all that until his friends found out he'd hooked up with another guy at a party they went to, after that he was the one with his shins being kicked in. He quit smoking in plain sight and a year after that quit completely. He and I began talking in class near the end of our junior year, and since then we've been friends. He hung out with Dillon and Sal and I and the others, and Sal particularly dug his bisexuality – of course this was before I had come to terms with my own, and when I had, Nick had come to terms with how straight he actually was and managed his way into a threesome with two particularly shy girls at a party they didn't even want to go to in the first place. But you know, that's his charm.

“You've been acting more annoyed then usual for the past week.” Nick mentions, and I only now realize I only proved his point with the glare I gave him.

“Two weeks.” Dillon corrects him, “I don't blame you, though. I wouldn't be on top of the world if I suffered a concussion while I was drunk off my ass.”

“I'm absolutely fine,” It's a lie, “I'm just bored out of my mind.” That's not a lie.

“You never realize how little there is to actually do when you can't go out drinking, right?” Dillon laughs, and so does Nick, but I scowl and sink lower into the couch.

“Living with Sal is really taking it out of you, man,” Nick comments playfully as Dillon gets up and heads to the kitchen for another beer. It's only noon, but it was not unusual for our drinking to start early. Of course for me, instead of drinking, I'm glaring at my glass of water on the coffee table waiting for it to turn into vodka. “You're getting more bitter as the days go by.”

“Fuck off.” I grunt, “You two are sitting around my damn apartment drinking without me.”

“If we didn't dangle things in front of your face like this, what kind of friends would we be?” Dillon grins mischievously as he sits down in the arm chair beside the sofa again, with another beer cracked open in his hand, and I watch as he takes his first sip from it.

“Not to mention you're drinking my beer.”

“Mm'mm.” I want to smash a chair over Nick's head.

It's not an exaggeration to call it torture. These two bastards are sitting there, grins and all, getting drunk in the early afternoon without me. I am sitting right fucking there, watching them, and they are both very aware of how much I like getting drunk this early in the day.

I know exactly how Sal would tell me this is an opportunity to get a life, and I know exactly how she would call me a jackass, and tell me to stop sulking around and feeling bad about myself like a small fucking child. I know the exact tone she would tell me all of this in, totally monotone, and I would probably hide in my room for the rest of the day and try to sleep. The key word there being try, of course, because being concussed makes everything harder then it has to be. I can hardly aim properly when I take a piss.

I can't watch television without the screen giving me a headache, I can't listen to the radio without it doing the same, there is nothing for me to do except eat what little food there is and drink glasses of water and sit here on this same ugly couch. There's nowhere to go, but I kind of want to leave the same room as my two asshole friends and smother myself with a pillow in my bedroom.

“Where's Sal today?”

“I don't fucking know.” I grunt, “She disappears without telling me.”

“How safe.”

“She's not my wife.” I only say it because it's what she would say if they said the same to her. She makes note, always, to let people know we're not married. And it's not only me, it's men in general – yeah, she's that paranoid about people thinking they can't fuck her.

“Dillon and I are going out tonight,” Nick tells me, “You could come along and just not drink.”

“Thank you Nick! You are such a pal.” I tell him, and I'm obviously being sarcastic, and he can tell, “ Unfortunately I'm going to have to decline, I think I've had enough of watching you two get drunk, thanks.” Asshole.

“Don't worry, the next two weeks will fly by.” Dillon is obviously lying to make me feel better here, and it doesn't work but I guess I appreciate.

The disappointment I feel when I do take a sip of my water and it hasn't yet turned into vodka is immense, and I want to throw the glass against the wall.