Tag Archives: high school

Dear Dionysus XXVII: Young And Wasted And Unchaperoned

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Dear Dionysus XXVII: Young And Wasted And Unchaperoned

Dear Dionysus,

I may have gotten a little ahead of myself yesterday. Or, to be more precise, a little around myself, as the last letter painted broad circles around all different phases of our relationship that I haven’t dealt with in that much detail yet. Let’s take a step back, shall we? Way back, in fact…

I was seventeen and everything was still, for the most part, going swimmingly. I hadn’t yet met Isadora and I was still an awkward, weird young thing, but I had just met you and my eyes were all googly and my heart all fluttery, etc.

I loved my group of friends then, Dionysus. We were inseparable, and the dozen or so of us saw each other every day and did nearly everything together. Thus, when one of us had our parents go out of town, it was typical for all of us to hang out at whichever residence that was. None of us was really cool or popular enough to put on anything like a proper high school party, so it would essentially be the same twelve kids doing the same stuff we usually did at each other’s houses, just without parents around.

Until we discovered drinking.

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Dear Dionysus XXVI: Incoherence, Absurdity, And Rambunctiousness

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Dear Dionysus XXVI: Incoherence, Absurdity, And Rambunctiousness

Dear Dionysus,

It seems like so long since I’ve written you, even though it’s only been a few days. But don’t get me wrong, mate, it isn’t you I miss: in fact, I don’t miss you at all. It’s just that I’ve been finding these letters rather therapeutic in a strange sort of way.

There was a time when I couldn’t go a day without seeing you. Do you remember? At first, the time in between our dates was all excitement and giddy nervousness: I would think about how much fun the last time was and about how much fun the next time would undoubtedly be. Later on, that time in between dalliances would become sheer torture: I needed you that moment, and when I didn’t have you, it was painful. You were the great escape, and I the chronic escapist, for reality was far too grievous, far too real. I needed you every single second of every single day no matter what the consequences because the alternative was much, much too frightening.

And then, even further down the line, towards the end of our association, things changed once again. Those times in between our degenerate dancing became lulls in the storm, so to speak. I was like a sailor adrift at sea coming out of one tempest and trying to pull myself together as much as possible, even though at my core I knew that the next one was inevitably coming and that it would probably be just as bad as (if not worse than) the last one. I’d cling to those brief reprieves and pray to gods I didn’t even believe in (not you because I always believed in you) to spare me my awful fate. But the gods were deaf and fate was cruel and I was a poor, poor sailor, Dionysus.

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Dear Dionysus XXV: Perfume Flashbacks

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Dear Dionysus XXV: Perfume Flashbacks

Dear Dionysus,

Memories make for strange dealings. For one, there doesn’t seem to be any such thing as an objective memory: every recollection is subjective, subject to the interpretations and moods and motives (conscious or subconscious) of the person doing the recollecting. For two, there doesn’t seem to be any such thing as a perfect memory, not even in the case of a photographic one: even if one is somehow capable of relaying later down the line every single detail just as they saw it, it’s still only as they saw it.

All of these memories are mine. That is to say, they are how I saw them, or as I remember seeing them. It’s debatable to what degree they differ from actual circumstances, but I’m doing my best to remain as objective as possible, even if that is, inevitably, subjective. It also goes without saying (and therefore must be said) that certain lifestyle choices and habits I frequently engaged in might make some of the specifics a little hazy, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed, Dionysus. I suppose it also must be pointed out that I’ve never been accused of having an under-active imagination, so there is a possibility that could have some effect on accuracy, as well. In my defense, however, there has always been a very definite line between reality and whatever goes on in my head, even if I often tried my best to erase that line.

Bedlam is a nice place to visit on occasion, Dionysus.

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Dear Dionysus XXIV: A Cinnamon Disappearing Act

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Dear Dionysus XXIV: A Cinnamon Disappearing Act

Dear Dionysus,

Things never got too serious with Analiese, although you wouldn’t have known it judging by the way she reacted when I ended things. I think we had been together for all of a month* before I broke the news.

“You’re a rad girl, it’s just not working out”; “It’s not you, it’s me”; “I love the way you grind your teeth, I just can’t see us grinding together anymore”; etc.

She didn’t take it very well at all, Dionysus. She cried and begged and pleaded with me not to break up with her. It was the most bizarre thing in the world to me, seeing as how we had basically just met and weren’t all that close. At least we weren’t from my end, although on my end was a colossally selfish prick.

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Dear Dionysus XXIII: Nervous Dicks & Amphetamine Tics

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Dear Dionysus XXIII: Nervous Dicks & Amphetamine Tics

Dear Dionysus,

Things were not easy for me with Isadora gone. All legalities aside, I simply missed her. Or rather, I missed all of the things that she represented to me and made me feel.

I am a disgusting creature of habit, Dionysus. If I experience something that I truly enjoy (or think I do), I simply must have it all the time. A dish, a feeling, a moment: if something suits my fancy enough, then I’ll do nearly everything I can to hold on to it as long as possible or, failing that, to attempt to recreate it.

For example: I had discovered that I thoroughly enjoyed the way that I felt when I had a girl on my arm. Not just any girl obviously: She had to be halfway intelligent and decent looking and have an agreeable taste in music at the very least. Because at the very least I was looking for acceptance. At best I wanted to make others envious of the bitchin’ girlfriend I had, because the girl was the measure of the teenage boy and envy was a definite sign that I was better than those doing the envying.

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Dear Dionysus XXII: A No Contact Order Of Affairs

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Dear Dionysus XXII: A No Contact Order Of Affairs

Dear Dionysus,

I found myself in a precarious spot, indeed. I was facing serious charges for one, and for two I was single. And I hated being single, Dionysus.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t accustomed to being alone, for I had been that way for most of my young life. I just had this silly notion in my head that only losers were single because if one is single, it is clearly because they can’t find anybody to date them. And I thirsted for validation, love: I equated being single with being a fat kid that no girls wanted to talk to (which, of course, I had been), and there was no way that my pride would allow for such a thing.

And there was all that other stuff like being in love with Isadora forever and being soul mates and such, I suppose.

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Dear Dionysus XXI: Most Dramatic Mess Disorder

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Dear Dionysus XXI: Most Dramatic Mess Disorder

Dear Dionysus,

You can’t possibly imagine how shook up I was after this entire ordeal. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as sick as I did that next day. Not knowing makes me nauseous, and not knowing what was to become of me or Isadora or our relationship drove me positively batty.

I had some vague notion of the possible sentence for statutory rape: years in prison, eternal public stigma, registering as a sex offender, forced chemical castration, etc. But I had no way of knowing which would happen to me.

And so I decided that all of them would happen to me, because that’s how my mind works. I just love imagining each and every disastrous, tragic way each and every situation, no matter how trivial, can play out. Then I usually pick the worst one and convince myself that that’s all she wrote, dig?

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Dear Dionysus XVI: Blue Roses & Red Tides

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Dear Dionysus XVI: Blue Roses & Red Tides

Dear Dionysus,

I have a thing for blue roses. I have a bunch of fake ones in a Pierrot vase in my room; I have an antique blue rose pin that I wear on my overcoat; I have a blue rose hair pin that I stole from one of my romantic interests. I like blue roses. I always have.

It started out because I thought roses were aesthetic and my favorite color was blue. I had no idea that they represented unattainable love or, more specifically, staying hopeful in the face of unattainable love.

Without even knowing it, I was projecting what was an immutable reality for me: love was unattainable. I didn’t know what love was, Dionysus. I passed off inflated ego and sexual satiation as love, and whenever those were taken away from me, well that was heartbreak.

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Dear Dionysus XV: Bon Voyage, Virginity

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Dear Dionysus XV: Bon Voyage, Virginity

Scroll to bottom for song to be played whilst reading.

Dear Dionysus,

All this talk about sex has gotten me a little worked up if you know what I mean. I’m rather sensitive about the subject at the moment; sore, even. I won’t go into graphic detail (Protestant upbringing), but you can call me Onan The Barbarian.

I’m only kidding, Dionysus. There’s nothing barbaric about masturbation is there? It certainly doesn’t seem to me as primal or bestial as the coupled variety. After all, even the lower order of beasts copulate with one another, but only the more evolved species copulate with themselves.

Sexual urges are burdensome, Dionysus. They’re a nagging swarm of gnats that simply won’t go away. You can stave them off for awhile, but they always return, don’t they? And it’s especially tricky when the only swatter you have handy is your hand, dig?

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Dear Dionysus XIV: A Jerk To Skirts

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Dear Dionysus XIV: A Jerk To Skirts

Dear Dionysus,

Did you know that this is the longest I’ve ever gone in my adult life without any intimate physical contact with a member of the opposite sex? It’s true.

I hope you don’t misunderstand me: I’m not lamenting this state of affairs, but rather pointing out the fact as evidence of how drastically different things have gotten. There was a time where I would have lost my mind if I didn’t lose my pants, dig?

Oh but I loved them all in my own special, solipsistic way, didn’t I? Even if it was only for a night or an hour or just one drunken exchanged glance across a crowded barroom, I loved them all. Except I didn’t really; I loved myself. Or rather, I loved the way these women, whether they were dive trollops or convent nuns, made me feel. They gave me everything I could never give myself: validation, self-worth, a sense of importance. I wanted to be their chivalrous champion for all of eternity (or until I got bored of them or they got tired of my insanity, at least).

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