She knew. She fucking knew.
I said "Yes I really want to."
I said "Let's do it, let's get really drunk, let's have a good time"
She said "I don't believe you."
She could see it in my eyes. It didn't matter the scope of the lie or its delivery. Sometimes your face can betray your mask.
She was simple, I had just met her. In that way, perhaps she knew me better than these distant friends, who have seen me in the same light since we were all seventeen.
I brush off her assertions.
"Sorry, maybe it's just my ora. Perhaps I come off as awkward!"
That's right, brush it off. Shift the blame. Alter the spotlight. Distance. Always distancing yourself.
She laughs nervously, and apologies profusely. She didn't mean to offend. Of course she didn't mean to offend. The problem is, she didn't offend but told the truth.
Some people never tell the truth. You could be hinting at depression, and they'd only see their crazy friend being wacky. They could turn a monologue into a tale about them. I find it hard to trust.
By the time the other two returned with the drinks, I felt more than embarrassed. I felt like an unborn egg in the hands of my destroyers.
They got me two sugary drinks filled with additives. I could practically feel my dentist's disappointment. Still, one mustn't complain.
We chit chatted, as they say. The awkwardness never arose again. Never again did the seeds of truth seep through. It was super superficial.
I had a good time. One of the most common misconceptions of this condition is we are never happy. I find it near impossible to be miserable all of the time. It sneaks up on you, when you're alone mostly. Even in groups it can infiltrate your brain. But I do like getting drunk.
Drink can ease the pain. That doesn't make me an alcoholic. I swear. I don't drink everyday, I don't drink as relief. All I'm saying, is I like to go out and drink while I'm at it. And I drink to get drunk, otherwise I'm oblivious to the point.