17: nor care for blood when wine will quench my thirst

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"You and your brother SERIOUSLY run away all night and put half the city on lockdown to get DRUNK?" My mother opens the blinds in my room, understandably furious. It's—oh it's ten am. Shane found us barfing our guts out, high and stoned and drunk off our asses, three hours ago in the really bad part of town  that we as a family refer to as Jersey. "What is WRONG with you?"
"An awful lot," I say, rolling over. My head feels like it's going to explode, but that's natural apparently. Still, the industrial strength grade-a terminal cancer patient pills should do the trick.
"Cyrus," my mother sighs, "Your father is on his way—,"
"Oh, worse than a hangover— tell him I'm not here," I say, trying to sit up and look for my phone. I'm mostly naked. Shane took off my vomit covered clothes because he really loves me.
"This is a new level, Cyrus," my father stalks into the room, suit crisp and put together.
"I noticed," to be clear I am still very drunk.
"It's not enough you're a total disgrace, but you drag your brother down with you?" He gets me by the back of the neck and drags me into the bathroom, shoving me onto the scale. Naturally, I can't stand, but he slaps my hands from leaning on the bathroom counter.
"One hundred and twenty seven??? Are you trying to kill yourself?" My father asks.
"What—-Cyrus—he's skin and bones," my mother comes in.
"The agents said he eats all his meals so why aren't you maintaining any weight?" My father asks, immediately before I vomit all over him. I didn't have to aim for his fancy suit and nice shoes. That was a choice I made. Like being spectacular all the time. Or not doing math. Or being gay. All little choices I've made for myself. And if I could do it all again I would absolutely vomit all over him a hundred more times, do less math, be even more spectacular, and be even gayer. But sadly I can't do it all again. I don't even have a lot of time to do this very imperfect version of me.
But I'm going to roll with it.

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