ask me if i give a shit.

They only want you when you’re 17, when you’re 21, you’re no fun.
-Ladytron

. . .

It was 6 AM as I glared at the alarm clock. I didn’t set it to buzz at all, but I woke up anyway, mentally counting only a couple of hours I slept. I was parched and my mouth tasted of puke. My fingers reminiscent of nicotine. The thick curtains only permitted dim light and so I staggered in the dark to get my cellphones. One was filled with texts from the queers. The other had a message from her:
“Hey, Alice. Can I call you tonight? ; )”
The message was sent at 11 PM last night. By that time I was probably drunk enough to dance. I clutched at my splitting head. Waves of guilt washed over me as I read Lisa’s text.
I went down to the living room and found nobody. My sister was sleeping over at her best friend’s. My parents probably left early to go out of town, but my mum taped 5,000 pesos on the fridge. Everything was quiet.
It was another normal Sunday.

. . .

At around eight I stepped out of this building and proceeded to take a short walk across the street to meet up with my good friend Johnny, the self-proclaimed gay slut. He was way older than me–26 I think. Still, we hit it off pretty easily the first time we met. That was when I woke up at his place after a night at Embassy. They said I passed out and Ross and Brian brought me to his place since it was nearby. When I got out of the unknown room I saw him talking to Brian quite seriously, like Brian had been crying or something. That was when I found out that Brian was in love with me, and Johnny told him I was into girls. How the hell did he find that out when I had never met him that time? Johnny said his gaydar was spot on, and he recognised my gay arse without difficulty. Even if I was dead drunk that time.
Minutes later, we were chilling outside of this bistro, and Johnny ordered me a beer. He slapped a pack of Marlboro lights right in front of me on the table. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem,” he lit up a joint. “So how was practise?”
He was asking me about the cotillion practise for a friend’s debut party. That was where I’d been earlier.
“It was a laugh. The dance instructor was hilarious. He kept saying ‘freeze’ in between dance steps, only he was saying it like ‘praise’. And we all raised our arms to fucking praise, man.” I said, almost spilling the beer on my skirt, laughing at the thought of the dance instructor in slip-ons with his socks up to his shins.
Johnny laughed. “What a pie grinder.”
Johnny called me a few minutes ago to meet at this place. Said he just wanted to chill because his long-distance boyfriend was ignoring his calls. He was looking cool in a navy blue pocket tee and new sneakers. I wore a black mini over ripped tights and boots and a Tsumori top underneath a light-colored blazer. A lot of people from Johnny’s other older crowd walked by the bistro and asked if he was turning straight for the chick in the blazer. We both just laughed, getting used to reactions like that.
I took a swig from the beer. My candy-colored bracelets glowed in the dim patio.
Johnny grinned. “Your wearing ‘em,”
“Yeah. Some of these on my left wrist are reminders of my favourite guys in the whole world,” I said, looking thoughtfully at the line of bracelets on my wrist. There was a jade bracelet from my grandpa. Pink and brown beads from Brian that he got from Boracay Island. And a colorful string of beads Johnny got from a cereal box on the day we first met. Said the rainbow colours suited me just fine.
Johnny smirked at me, the telltale sign of the beginning of a joke. “Your favorite guys? You mean that name carved on your left wrist is actually a guy?”
I pouted, smacking him on the shoulder with a mock frown.

. . .

yes.