Tyler Petrit Isn't Here | ✓

17

The others are watching us, waiting to see who lunges for the kill, but Gio thinks he's right, so I surrender. I return to staring at the ceiling.

"That was anti-climactic," Bianca declares to the room. "And how'd you lose a tooth? That's sick."

"Sick as in 'gross,' or sick as in 'cool'?"

"Both, dude. That's some metal shit."

"I've got some body issues and my mouth was affected the most."

"Not from a fight or anything? Lame."

"You sound like Gio back when he was cool." The words sound like a joke, but my tone is genuine. Maybe I can hang out with her instead of him.

The hospital has an odd mothballs-meet-plastic smell, and that's what the broth tastes like. Gio is the last to leave as the group escapes the horrible food. I think about giving him an explanation, about everything, but I chicken out. He deserves one, and so does Alaska.

When I'm ready, I will.

They're going to place a stent inside me in order to expand my kidney. It makes the stones easier to remove. I've got two, one in each kidney. The one in my left is smaller than the one in my right. The X-ray also revealed something wrong with my esophagus and they're going to extract a throat tissue sample while I'm knocked out.

My insurance, luckily, covers the surgery and some of the other small things the hospital needs me to do. It won't cover the therapy I may get or all of the car damage, but I'm not ready for another car just yet.

Therapy is a whole other story. No therapist can understand the memories and the shit I do to appease them, the excuses I give to myself so that I can keep destructing. No therapist can understand the rush I get at first, thinking I'm finally doing something right, as the disorder takes its toll on me.

I can't bring myself to explain. It takes bravery to do that.

My current problem is that I underestimated the severity of nicotine and alcohol withdrawals.

The reason people call food a drug is because the ones you like initiate cravings like real drugs do. Cravings last for, at most, twenty minutes, but Jesus fuck, is it longer than most think, and they're endless.

Polly returns by herself. (Now's your chance. Get cigarettes). I don't understand how she doesn't have friends - better friends than us, rather. She's a rapidfire  chatterbox. If you really pay attention, most people don't have a lot to say, but there's always other drooling freaks who eat that shit up for the sake of looks or presumed status. Polly makes sure there's not one second of dead air. There are guys who will go crazy for her even if she's gay, just like there were chicks at Louis' who flirted with Gio despite how open he is. She's that girl at the party who says stuff like, "And I only use the pure white Crest toothpaste, not the ones with the blue stripes. It works the best, I swear," and the other morons are amazed by it, taking notes and shit.

At least, that's how she parades herself to be. My mind takes me so far into the realm of exaggeration that she gets ear-grating when she hasn't done much.

I let her talk, though, because the crap she's spewing is louder than my intrusive thoughts. (It's not her that's annoying, it's you. You'll relax if you can get her to buy cigarettes). I think she's probably making sure I didn't forget about her stupid CD, but she says, "You could always be a prostitute, y'know, for a job."

"That's illegal."

She narrows her eyes. "So is underage drinking. What the hell are you watching?"

"Public Access stuff. Humanity at its rawest."