NYE '15: A Derogatory Memoir

Niki Freeland was my best friend. We did a lot of adderall together, and sometimes we drank. Her motto was “I’m going to use him for everything he’s worth.” We met at Santa Barbara High School. There were a lot of rich boys with BMWs whose parents went out of town a lot who went to school with us. We would go to their house and she would have sex with them. I would pop 100 mg of adderall, sit on the mysterious boy’s couch, and attempt to form a relationship with the family dog. She had a lot of sex, but so did I. At least she was getting something from it - booze, pills, free rides. The only thing I came remotely close to getting was an STD. I dodged that bullet, though.

She was really smart. Probably because of the adderall. She was a senior and I was a junior. We would sit in her room, stare at the walls, and have politically controversial debates or deep conversations about the true meaning of the SAT. She helped me fill out all of my college applications a year before they were due.

One night, after 300 mg of adderall (which is a f*****g lot), I wrote 8 essays which would qualify me for entrance into any university I wanted - or so I thought. I revised them a couple days later after coming down from my tweaker mindset, and they were all so frighteningly weird and abstract. I couldn’t comprehend them.

Niki’s academic success landed her in a slightly normal social group at school which she introduced me to. The group was a combination of theater kids with insane GPAs who were intrigued by people that did drugs but refused to do them - they only drank on weekends. They attended cool-theater-kid parties and dressed like characters from Grease.

Alessio Morello was my John Travolta. I formulated our relationship in our head. I am stupid for being disappointed when he didn’t fall into the role he was supposed to. He didn’t even f*****g know about it. Silly me.

I met him through Niki. He had a car and we would go to hip coffee shops, drink espresso and smoke cigarettes and talk about college. One of our favorite destinations, if we were feeling more adventurous (dependent upon how much adderall we had taken that day), was an abandoned oil refinery 30 minutes away in Ojai. It was best to go at sunset. The guards couldn’t see you, but you could still navigate the place and avoid slipping on puddles of oil and possibly cracking your head.

There were tons of good photo ops there. Alessio would take pictures of Niki and I for his portfolio that he would later send to very prestigious universities. He was probably accepted by all of them. I don’t know, though. We haven’t talked in a long time.

One night, the three of us hit a few New Year’s parties, thrown by the richest of the rich that went to Santa Barbara High School. Parents weren’t even out of town, they just didn’t give a s**t. Hell, they were the stand-in bartenders. Niki and I loaded up on adderall and headed into the abyss of teenage angst, sweat, and Keystone Light. I thought this was living.

We were at the third party of the night. I caught a cold within maybe an hour. I lost my voice. I hadn’t even been yelling. I don’t even think I had been talking - I was too paranoid to do so because the amphetamines were taking over and I feared I would say something very off-color, so I refrained from social interaction. Christian Pederson, the one throwing the party, was an acquaintance of mine. He let me inside the house. Mostly everyone was out on the deck and in the backyard. The house was off limits because he had expensive liquor in there and his parents would kill him if anyone drank it.

I sat on the couch and sipped my beer. There were a few other people in there. Nobody really talked to me. It did not occur to me that it had gotten so late in the night. I looked at my phone. It was 11:54. The ball would drop in 6 minutes. Everyone slowly started crowding in the house and around the TV, despite Christian’s dismay. I sat on the couch and waited. I didn’t care all that much for traditions. I wasn’t intoxicated in the way these people were.

My contemplation about all of which was occurring around me was abruptly stopped when I heard a familiar tune playing from a piano that I had not realized was right in the living room until ‘All of Me’ by John Legend was being beautifully played on it by Alessio. I had always appreciated his artistic abilities, even though I thought it made him a little gay. Though I stopped questioning his sexuality after a heavy makeout session in my kitchen a month prior.

I looked up from the couch and saw the German exchange student sitting on the bench. B***h. She was so pretty - with her blonde hair, frail limbs, and porcelain skin. Like a f*****g doll. Except her eyes were really far apart, but I don’t think Alessio gave a s**t. They kissed at midnight, when the ball dropped. I had been so wrapped up in jealousy and angst that I didn’t notice them get up from the bench and head over to count down the seconds until 2015.

After everyone was done mauling each other’s faces, I made my way through the crowd, outside to have a cigarette. Chris Machaen, a short half-Mexican prick that I had fucked a couple times said “Ay Kayla you wanna be my first kiss of the year?”

“F**k off, Chris.”

Alessio left the party to go to IHOP with the German girl. I hope she choked on a pancake.

Author's Note

update: the german girl is alive and well, unfortunately. pancakes will not be cause of death for her.