drunk-emo

[drunk-emo]

[drunk-emo]

When Your Number Is Called

My name is Courtney, and I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26th, 1988.  When I was born my parents didn’t ask the doctor if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy. Instead they asked, “what’s the number?”

The room braced for the doctor’s answer.  My parents held each other close, both openly crying as they prayed for good news.  “Her number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the black numbers that spread across it.  “152310232048.”

My parents cried in relief.  

I would live a good life.  

I had a good number.

You see, in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist.  What does the number mean exactly?  Well—the number gives us the day we die.  We don’t know how we will die, but we will—at that exact time.  Think of it like the expiration date you see on a jug of milk.  After the expiration date, you throw away the milk, right?  Well, that is what the marks on our wrists mean.  We obviously don’t get thrown away in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date.  And just like that jug of milk buried in some landfill, we too will be buried in the ground.

My number is 152310232048.

Which means that at 3:23 PM on October 23rd, 2048—I will die.  

I will live to be 59 years old.  

I have a good number.  It isn’t the best number.  My brother is going to live to be 88. My parents, couldn’t believe it when the doctor read his number out loud.  He will live 29 years longer than me.  He will see so much more than me, experience so much more than me.  He might even live to see his great-great grandchildren—I’ll be lucky to see my grandchildren.    

I sometimes get jealous when I see his number.  

But this is my life.  

I can’t change my number.  

It is permanent.  

Medicine, money, and miracles do not change your number. You can certainly die earlier then your number, but to die before your number is rare.  People just tend to be more careful.  After all, when you are constantly walking around with a literal reminder of your time left on earth on your wrist, you tend appreciate the life you have a little more.

I have a good number.  

I’m reminded of this when I see other people’s number.  

The first time this happened was when I was 5 years old.

On my first day of school, I was in kindergarten and I’ve never really interacted with any other kids besides my older cousins. I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the swings.  Anyone who liked swings as much as me—well, they were cool in my book.    

On my way to an open swing a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt, and brown eyes full of mischief, performed a back flip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash landing.  He jumped up, dusted off his pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be 57.”

It was such a typical kid way of introducing themselves.  Adults tended to be more secretive of their numbers.  Wearing watches, or long-sleeved shirts to cover up their numbers, but five year olds—we didn’t understand the concept of subtlety. 

Clearly.

Another body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet.  It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly braided pig tails.  “My names Fiona, and I’m going to live to be 62.” 

Another body landed next to her.  He stumbled a bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he found his balance.  “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose.  “I’m going to live to be 17.”

Mind you—we were in kindergarten.  We were literally learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but the concept of numbers—that we didn’t need to learn.  Our parents made sure we knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal numbers that adorned our wrists.  

Which meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number.  

It must have showed on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged me.  And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s okay,” before pulling back and smiling.  “My dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time. They said it is isn’t about how high your number is—but it’s about what you do with the number you get.”

Looking back now, as an adult thinking about having my own child—I’d probably say the same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number.  What else can you do?  You can’t change your child’s number.  You can’t give your child more time, no matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place them on your child’s—you just can’t. Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else.

Oscar’s dads gave him hope.  

His dads were great people.  I grew close to them as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and me—we became best friends after the day on the swings.  We called our group “The Swingers,” much to the embarrassment of our parents.  We didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young, but we finally understood when we were 15—and thanks to the internet, we learned exactly what “swingers” were. But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their parents?

“Courtney where are you going?  It’s late!”

“Dad said I can go to Oscar’s house!”

“And what will you be doing at Oscar’s house?”

“God mom—we are just having a swinger party, can I go now?”

The look of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public.

Speaking of Oscar’s house.  His house became the “hang out” spot for us four.  Mostly because his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was professional Chef, which meant we ate good there.  But back to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome.  They adopted Oscar when he was just an infant.  His mother gave him up when she saw his number.  It was an epidemic in our world.  Foster homes were full of children with bad numbers.  

But Oscar’s dads, they didn’t see his number.  They just saw Oscar.  This happy, intelligent, beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young.  They didn’t see his number—instead they just saw Oscar.

Devon, Fiona, and I—we only saw Oscar too.  

Most of the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because honestly, what was the point?  He wouldn’t be around for long.  So, it was the four of us—for as long as we had the four of us.

We laughed.

We cried.

We fought.

We experienced our first kisses.

We loved.

We had our hearts broken.

We got drunk once—never again.

We got high—more than once.

We just lived.

“The Swingers” lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about to become three.  Oscar’s day would land just a few weeks before our Senior graduation. We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so close to the actual date on our calendar.

Oscar took accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up.  The school planned a graduation ceremony just for him the day before his number.  His dad’s and his extended family fills the stands, the rest of his class sit in the chairs, the very same chairs they will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of 2007 would all walk together.  The principal called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone.  

Oscar was the schools valedictorian.  He stayed late after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his dedication to his studies really got in the way of “swinger” time.  One day, after another late night of not seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It is just a Chemistry test Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the world!”

Oscar barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be great,” he said.  “I don’t get anything after this.  So, if this is all I get—I’m going to be the best.”

And he did.  

He became the best.

A 4.0 grade point average

An SAT score of 1560.

And he never filled out a single college application.

Oscar cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s attention.  “Thank you for everyone who came today.  It means a lot, to me. Very much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.”

Gasps echoed through the gym and Oscar smiled.

“That was not meant to be a joke.  Please don’t think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number.  Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something short.”

“My mother gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old.  As soon as the doctor read my number, she signed over custody of me to the state.   I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve even taken my first shit.”

Laughter echoed from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval echoed from the teacher’s and administration. But Oscar just smiled, as he looked back at the principal.  “Feel free to give me a detention this weekend for cussing,” he joked, earning another chuckle from the students.  

“She was wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym.  “Anyone who ever stared at my number, and looked at me with sadness—you were wrong. I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will live—but make no mistake, I have lived.  My life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant as someone who lived well into their 80’s.”

Taking in a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste.  Every moment of my life has counted, cherished and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?”

Oscar died on 2:13 PM on March 16th, 2007.

Like his number said, he lived to be 17.

He had a bad number

But he didn’t let his number define him.

Instead he lived every day, until his number was called.

This story was adapted and turned into a 50 page short story, and is now available for purchase through Amazon!

The Kindle format can be purchased here for $2.99

The Paperback format can be purchased here for $5.99

It is also free with Kindle Unlimited!

Thank you for reading this story, and for your support if your purchased the book!  

[drunk-emo]

This is glorious and even thought it doesn’t fit in the range of all the paranormal, I MUST share

It works like this: You tell Kitestring that you’re in a dangerous place or situation, and give it a time frame of when to check in on you. If you don’t reply back when it checks your status, it’ll alert your emergency contacts with a custom message you set up.

It doesn’t require you to touch anything (like bSafe) or shake your phone (like Nirbhaya) to send the distress signal. Kitestring is smarter, because it doesn’t need an action to alert people, it needs inaction.

MORE INFORMATION

[drunk-emo]

“Get a rat and put it in a cage and give it two water bottles. One is just water, and one is water laced with either heroin or cocaine. If you do that, the rat will almost always prefer the drugged water and almost always kill itself very quickly, right, within a couple of weeks. So there you go. It’s our theory of addiction. Bruce comes along in the ‘70s and said, “Well, hang on a minute. We’re putting the rat in an empty cage. It’s got nothing to do. Let’s try this a little bit differently.” So Bruce built Rat Park, and Rat Park is like heaven for rats. Everything your rat about town could want, it’s got in Rat Park. It’s got lovely food. It’s got sex. It’s got loads of other rats to be friends with. It’s got loads of colored balls. Everything your rat could want. And they’ve got both the water bottles. They’ve got the drugged water and the normal water. But here’s the fascinating thing. In Rat Park, they don’t like the drugged water. They hardly use any of it. None of them ever overdose. None of them ever use in a way that looks like compulsion or addiction. There’s a really interesting human example I’ll tell you about in a minute, but what Bruce says is that shows that both the right-wing and left-wing theories of addiction are wrong. So the right-wing theory is it’s a moral failing, you’re a hedonist, you party too hard. The left-wing theory is it takes you over, your brain is hijacked. Bruce says it’s not your morality, it’s not your brain; it’s your cage. Addiction is largely an adaptation to your environment. […] We’ve created a society where significant numbers of our fellow citizens cannot bear to be present in their lives without being drugged, right? We’ve created a hyperconsumerist, hyperindividualist, isolated world that is, for a lot of people, much more like that first cage than it is like the bonded, connected cages that we need. The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. The opposite of addiction is connection. And our whole society, the engine of our society, is geared towards making us connect with things. If you are not a good consumer capitalist citizen, if you’re spending your time bonding with the people around you and not buying stuff—in fact, we are trained from a very young age to focus our hopes and our dreams and our ambitions on things we can buy and consume. And drug addiction is really a subset of that.”

— Johann Hari, Does Capitalism Drive Drug Addiction?

[drunk-emo]

For anyone going through a difficult time, hang in there. You'll make it, I promise. ❤

[drunk-emo]

Seeing other gay couples in public is a religious experience. I have formally attained Nirvana.

[drunk-emo]

Writing

TBH, I love to write. It’s my passion, has been since I was a kid. One day I’ll publish something.

[drunk-emo]

[drunk-emo]

Okay so... (this shouldn't be as hard as it is)...

1. Talking to people I love being with...and just you know getting to know your friends better.😁😁❣

2. Playing basketball, specially when the adrenaline is high and just... woww💕💕

3. Drawing... I love how it calms me down beautifully (even tho I can't draw to save my life) 😂😂💕

4. Writing- Finally completing a piece I've been agonising over for days is just so rewarding and so great. I feel like I'm at the top of the world.😁😁

5. Listening to music at full blast- I just like go mad and pretend like I'm in a music vid or am the frontman of the band performing a live show. I feel just amazingggg❤❤

(@solaettristis I'm one of the people who hasn't reblogged any of your stuff but thank you so much for tagging me dude😁)

@circe-poetica @nashlancrew @bluedusksandpinkdawns @fiftypurpleroses @azawrites @dustylovelyrun @winterdreamworld @lay-writes @the-violet-writer

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers! :D (I hope your day is bright like you make my days :)

Uhh you got me with this fuck.... Uhhh let's see

1. Food. Always will be food until it grts replaced by someone

2. Back scratches! Ugh I just looooove them

3. HUGZ AND CUDDLE, !! I ADORE HUGS AND CUDDLEZ 🤗🤗😍😍 Also if anyone wanna cuddle.... Please... Ya girl is getting desperate

4. Warm and cozy bed... Idk why it's just makes me go 😁😁😁

5. Making joke 😂😂😂 but yes ik it's literally supposed to make me happy but the thing is I love laughing and I love laughing with other ppl so yeah 🤷‍♀️☺️

ALSO THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS IT MADE MY DAY TBH

@the-very-tired-gay @its-a-me-mario-hihi @itsmeanobody @kamilahsqueen @spideysrogers @onceuponamadz @drunk-emo @empyreanwritings @missmonsters2 @kello-unknown

Ok ik some of yall that are tagged didn't reblog any of my shit but yeah

[drunk-emo]

What if I decided I don't give a fuck?

[drunk-emo]

Monstrous

Preaching of love, fairness, beauty,

Am I the only one who sees those twisting

Black fangs, the horned tongue, the spite?

Am I the only one who sees the monster?

Am I the only one who sees the hate,

The repulsion, the envy?

Or is it true that I am delusional,

Heartless, cruel, rude and the monster?

[drunk-emo]

The Dying Tree

The slanting sunlight bleaches

The leafless, sorrowless tree, standing upright

It’s hollowness unmasked, like a wright

In the slanting September sunlight.

 .

It’s beauty laid bare, an old man

Hunched over, old far beyond his years,

Worn down by the corpses hanging by their fears.

The noose tightens, the tree creeks,

And takes me up, away from all these freaks.

 .

As the noose tightens around my neck, I am glad,

I become a thing of sorrowful, sad, beauty.

[drunk-emo]

Heartlessness

Tie my heart down,

Tie it with a stone, drag it down,

Burn it to the ground.

The blood red devil, stake it,

And bury it in an unmarked mound.

 .

Why? Oh because it’s useless anyway,

And it strays away,

A black cavity where it used to stay.

[drunk-emo]

Soulmates

A short soulmate fic, where the names of your soulmates appear on your skin a year after you’ve known them, often both appearing within a week of each other.

.

‘Look!’ She banged the door open with her foot.

Half of her short pixie hair were in her eyes- indeed her hair were more punk than pixie, all the better to match her Ramones shirt. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

She marched grinning, up to me and thrust her hand in front of my face. I reflexively jolted backwards.

‘Look!’ She said again, waving her hand enthusiastically, threatening to take off my nose.

‘At what?’ I grabbed hold of her hand, both to save my nose and to make sure it did not fall off due to the vigor it was being shaken with.

‘This!’ She pointed to a spot on the inside of her elbow. There, a mark was visible. A soulmate mark; my name “Samirah” etched clearly in black, in what was undoubtably my handwriting.

I have to admit, at that I went into post-apocalyptic shock. I had not shown her my soulmate mark yet, refusing to believe it was true.

‘Still there?’ She asked snapping her fingers in front of my eyes. ‘By the way, I expect to see your mark in less than a week, or no kisses.’

She sat on the armrest of my chair, her arms folded, an expression of mock sternness on her face.

‘Oh I didn’t tell you?’ I asked, smug. ‘I got mine two days ago.’

She fell of the chair. At first I thought she did it on purpose, for the comedic aspect of it all. But when she got up, wide eyed, from the floor, I realized she was actually that shocked.

‘Wait, really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t think a person could have two matches.’ She said softly, after a long pause. She was rubbing the name “Catherine” on her neck, now a half faded scar.

‘I don’t know about people, but you certainly do.’ I said, pulling her into a soft kiss.

She didn’t prolong the kiss though, and slightly pulling away, asked, ‘Where?’

I raised the hem of my shirt slightly to expose my stomach. What she saw evidently pleased her immensely, for she caught my mouth in another kiss, this one more passionate than the last.

[drunk-emo]

Half completed poetry on scraps of paper,

A filled rubbish bin- left for later.

A dark city in a bright street,

To all sins it does cater-

And that is where our loves meet.

[drunk-emo]

I never understood love, now I feel the pain every time I look at you.

- Es

[drunk-emo]

Feelings are weird, amazing, irritating and also really hard to define. You think you understood one perfectly only to find that it transformed completely when you weren't looking.

- Es