The STD of South Burlington, Vermont.
There were a lot of hypocrites present that night. Four, to be exact. I was greeted with the normal high fives; no wonder as to why I hadn't been around, because most everyone already knew. The truth is, I hate that place. That apartment is littered with beer cans that probably all have a cigarette's worth of ash in them, crappy music always playing too loud, and it constantly reeks of a foul stench that will probably never escape, even from the many holes in the walls. I promised myself I would never return there, not because it was an addiction I had to overcome, but because every time I arrived, I regretted every moment of believing that it would be alright.
Mike Cote and Ebby Rylant felt the same way. Yet I walked into a dark room to find Ebby sitting on a bed with a can of beer in her hands, contradicting all the hateful words she had relayed about her very present location, and swearing on her life and happiness never to return. Mike, who had communicated the same feelings of unhappiness and disliking, was also there, sitting in the corner blazed as all hell, ranting to me about how he was now a hot-shot dealer and how his "bud" was "danker" than any around. Case one and two of hypocrisy.
But the scare of the night came when I left that room, turned the corner into the living room, and noticed a boy who had his back to me at the time. I quickly leaped back from the corner in hopes that my existence in the apartment would remain unknown to him. I suddenly felt a jolt slowly and painfully go through my entire body as I recalled how it felt to be this angry. That image of turning the corner and seeing his tattoo-covered arms and tight Gap jeans was branded into my brain, and I was completely cornered; this run-in was inevitable. I turned the corner and stood there in the doorway, and even though I knew I looked far more stunning and out of place than any other person there, I knew that as soon as James saw me, awkardness would have new meaning. I at least expected a "Hello," but all I got was a weird look and an "excuse me" as he pushed himself around me and continued ignoring my existence. Case three of hypocrisy.
As soon as he left the room and I worked to forget that mental picture of him, I swung my jacket on at warp speed, said goodbye to no one, and rushed towards the door in hopes that I could pretend these run-ins were just part of a bad dream. I walked down the stairs, power-walked to my car, and drove off before I even had time to think about how miserable I had been for the past fifteen minutes. I made a promise to myself that night to never go back to that disgusting place, trashed with bad memories and filthy with bloody knives that have scarred my mind one too many times. I promised myself. Again. Case four of hypocrisy.