The Fuck Up

i.

When Harley and I first met, I hated him. To the core. Sometimes—sometimes I think I still hate him.

At that point in time, I was a mess. Not in the same mess most other people are—disgusting, filthy homes with drugs hidden in every corner and constant alcohol-scented breath like their lungs are filled with the shit.

No, I was a silent mess; slowly murdering myself from the inside out in a way people won’t notice; or really, just won’t care. I’d just gotten off a pretty long call with my sister, one where I had to pretend I wasn’t in a bar about to get so shitfaced I wouldn’t remember any of the reasons behind why I was the biggest fuck up to ever exist.

I was just coming out of the disgusting bar bathroom—which I’d hidden in to talk to her (she’s lucky I fucking love her enough to at least pretend I was okay because anyone else would’ve gotten an ear blast of horrible country music and what can I get you?)—and apparently the fates all saw this as a fucking chance to make my life hell because guess who was just coming in?

That’s right. Harley.

And you know that way you check out guys unconsciously in a very homosexual manner even though you yourself have no idea you’re, in fact, homosexual?

Yeah, that’s the way I looked at him.

But see, my brain didn’t seem to register that I found this random guy, who was on his merry way to piss, incredibly fucking hot, so I passed him by without even a second glance.

What I didn’t know, though, was that my proud—disgustingly and openly happily into men—Harley had taken a second glance, and was interested.

Needless to say when he approached me at the bar after I’d downed my fifth shot and taken my twelfth swig of beer, I only vaguely recognized him and was annoyed at the fact that he was interrupting me when I was barely even tipsy.

The struggles of a heavyweight, twenty-two year old drunk, I thought bitterly.

“Hey,” was his big, spectacular greeting.

“What.” I looked at him so blandly and so annoyed that my statement couldn’t even be considered a question. He didn’t seem surprised at my rudeness. I guess I did—and still do—give off a not exactly the nicest person you’ll ever fucking meet vibe.

He opened his mouth to say something, but glanced at the bartender as he set down three more shots in front of me. He raised an eyebrow as I quickly down them all without hesitating, making a gesture for a refill. He chuckled quietly. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Listen, you prick. If I can’t sit here and enjoy the goddamn alcohol I’m paying for then I will set this whole place on fire with everyone in it because then no one will.”

I never said I wasn’t crazy.

His eyes widened and his lips parted in shocked awe.

“You’ll be the first person I make sure to set a match to if you don’t get the fuck away from me.”

And with that I turned away from him as if he didn’t exist. I don’t know how long he stood there before he walked away, but I didn’t care.

I just make the best first impressions, right? I didn’t give a shit, though, because I stopped caring what people thought of me when I left that fucking town with those fucking people and that fucking house.

That night, I downed drink after drink, and the bartender never complained about me ‘overdoing it’. Maybe he heard my threat to that prick and was afraid I’d light him up like one of my cigarettes.

And I deliciously forgot that night, my drunken haze pulling me away from reality and making everything less painful. And when I woke up the next morning, hung-over as shit, I didn’t even remember the idiot that had tried to talked to me.