My first house party

The dull silence which usually occupied the trains in the morning was replaced with a rich thrill that ran through the mouths of many. The train became a social hub more than anything. The buzz of the train didn’t cease until it stopped at Kings Cross Station. Until then, there was laughter, girls in tight mini skirts with open chested blouses which flattered their apple, pear or pinched in figures. The guys were already having a party, each carrying their own can of laggar. I checked the time on my phone. My phone, a blackberry which carried the marks of a soldier from being thrown at the wall too many times at the attempt for it to forcefully defect from my possessions, was still alive. It had survived even to this day. What a shame. I really wanted an iPhone.

Anyway, it was only half an hour past seven. Everyone on the train except me and a parent accompanied child was a little bit more than tipsy. Their shouts and wails contained a common theme of complete abandon. Oh, well, they seemed happy enough. Each man clutched enthusiastically to an alcoholic drink while their other hand held desperately onto a pole as to not fall down flat on his face. The women were pulling down skirts, the same as I was doing. The only difference was that they made an attempt to readjust their tossled hair by puffing it up or smoothing it down with the tips of their fingers. That was something I didn’t do, couldn’t do because I hadn’t done anything to my hair beforehand but tie it up in a bun. But that was fine, I had other pressing issues to think about.

My brain kept spinning around the concept of going to a party. I had never been to one of this magnitude and was seriously worried because I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure how to dance, what drink to chose and what foods to eat. I was sure I wouldn’t let vodka touch my lips, nor rum. I had already encountered such things and it did not bode well for me. I was a horribly depressed drunk, with suicidal tendencies. I was not willing to return there. So, maybe, no alcohol. Wait, definitely no alcohol. At least, that was decided. How about food? Dancing? I guess, those are the things where I’m going to have to wait and see.

Anyway, the women on the train were getting a bit weird. Every time I glanced their way, I saw how they would subtly pout their lips before speaking to their fellow man. It was quite funny to watch but I didn’t dare laugh or even smile too much. I didn’t want any attention to be drawn to me. But, by the time two stops had gone by, I was pretty sure no such thing would occur. They were all preoccupied with each other. Their glazed eyes hardly dropped my way.

The train juggled them about, slamming each body against each other before purging them out of the doors as an automated voice announced their stop. Group by group the train became silent, and I was blissfully left alone in my seat as less bodies heaped themselves onto me.

It was coming close to my stop, but I refused to look up, worried that the remaining participants would realise that I had no idea to where I was going. But really, those remaining were half asleep, the bags underneath their eyes dragged their heads down before their necks suddenly snapped back up, darting their eyes around the carriage. One of these creatures asked me if they had missed their stop. I shook my head before saying no. They nodded and let their heads fall again.

When I heard my stop be announced, I carefully lifted by radio shaped bag, fiddled nervously with its dials for a little bit before walking towards the opening doors sliding away giving me room to exit. It was time to find the house.

The night air was cold when I stepped out onto the platform. The smell of concentrated urine made its appearance as I sprinted up the steps. I was late. I wasn’t sure if that was okay or not, considering it was a party. But, I was more than half an hour late. I wasn’t even sure if she had got my whatsapp messages to let her know whether I was late. I felt horrible.


A starting point

From this website I’m under the impression that you must write. Write to your hearts content!

However, I’m not exactly sure what to write, and therefore what I want to start with. But since my username is staring right at you (I assume), I might as well start writing about that.

My username is nakedstreetkid for no other reason than my (not so) intelligent brain combining two titles, from two books which are laying comfortably on my right hand side. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love J.D Robb’s Naked in Death but the other book – the book that takes up 2/3rds of my username – well, I just haven’t had the chance to read yet. And I know what you’re thinking: why on earth would you essentially name yourself after a book you haven’t even read yet? Why not combine Emma by Jane Austen with The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath to make Emmasbelljar a thing for people to stare at for ages? Forever confusing people as to which one is true. People all over the world will ask either one of two things. Is her name really Emma? Or does she really represent the bell jar that Sylvia Plath so cleverly used to symbolise the suffocating hold that manic depression has on a person? And the answer would be no to both of them.

I am only 16 years old and am somewhat depressed but not to the extent that I can say that I am trapped beneath an airtight fortress that Plath describes as a bell jar. I mean, in the past I have been. Maybe that’s why I read the book so early in my adolescence (when I just turned 13), I could in somewhat way relate to the self-hatred and utter emptiness that Plath played through Esther. Thus making The Bell Jar my coming-of-age story.

Although, I’ve never actually re-read the book. It reminds me too much of my past and not enough of my present or future. Therefore from the action of not re-reading the book in fear of returning to the past should alert you to my now optimistic attitude towards life. And this fact should lead you to the conclusion of the nature of my former (and current) depression. It is not one of sheer pessimism but of realism (coupled with threads of pessimism). Yes. The daunting realisation of the human races need to crush and oppress the ones that have not conformed to societies infrastructure of social and ethnic hierarchy. Which of course we all somehow fit into. Whether we like it or not.

And there’s the reason for my once spiralling depression.

Primarily it was the stereotypes (mold, if you will) that humans have embedded deeply into societies foundation that scared me the most. But, with organisations such as NUS (national union of students) or videos on youtube such as downtownpatrol, there were now solutions to my problems. And my all too realistic/pessimistic view on the world morphed into optimism.

I know what you’re thinking! No, it’s not like I have drowned myself in naivety and innocence. Of course not. In order for things to change you must be realistic about the problems in the world, but to attempt to change you must be hopeful and confident that change can happen.

Is that the conclusion of this blog entry? Well, I believe it is. My english teacher has always told me to plan but I decided to delve right into this and just try it out. Next time I make a post, I will try to plan the beginning middle and end (but like Sarah Kay said someone else said “not necessarily in that order”). Maybe I’ll try to use my punctuation far more wisely than I have today but, well, I need to experiment before I get things right.

So, if you’re looking at my blog for the first time and see this entry just know that I want to experiment with my writing. So it won’t all at once be amazing. I will have mistakes. But I prefer to make mistakes early on rather than later in the future when things begin to matter to me.

Thanks for reading. Nakedstreetkid out! 😉