It's a rare moment, you think to yourself, when you and your friends are all at home, all at the same time. Everyone's moved away, off to bigger and better and brighter things but you have been stuck. You've always been the broke one, the poor one, the loser, the one that's still figuring it out. But for the only time in your life, you feel like you have a pretty good grasp on things.
Your phone will buzz around 11:30 AM. It's a rainy Sunday and you decide to keep it light today. "I need a low-impact day" you tell him over the phone. He laughs and tells you he's on his way to pick you up.
You realize you're still wearing the same clothes from the night before and it doesn't bother you quite as much as it used to. Your phone rings again and he tells you he's outside. He's with another one of your friends and they walk into your house. They insist on taking their shoes off even though you don't care about that kind of thing. The three of you sit in your bedroom and recap the events of the previous night.
Apologies are thrown around because, apparently, the three of you are terrible human beings who like to start arguments when drunk (you are the main culprit and some times you don't understand why they still hang out with you after you try pushing them into a busy intersection). You laugh and continue to make jokes. They only apologize to you because they think you wanted to go home with that girl you met at the bar. You assure them you didn't and pick up one of the many guitars you keep in your room.
You start strumming a song you used to listen to on hungover drives home. You don't play it as well as the guy who wrote it but you get the basic gist and rhythm of it down. Your friends are surprised and one of them picks up another guitar and starts playing along with you (even though he hasn't played guitar in years -- he's just a drummer, remember?). You ask if anyone can remember all the words because you only know the beginning. You start singing in that sideways way you sing:
"Me and my friends we don't encourage discipline or really much of anything. We do our drugs 'till we're lit up. Tell ourselves that this is love. But it's never added up and it will never be enough."
You smile/sing your way through the song and your friends sing the lyrics that you forget. Even though your eyes are closed (you almost never sing with your eyes open), you can tell your friends are smiling/singing the same way you are. You near the end of the song with laughter and ask if your friends are ready. As you get to the final lyrics, the three of you take a collective deep breath in the bedroom you grew up in, located in the house you lived in for almost a quarter of your life that resides in the town you've grown to hate. You look at your friends then let your voices echo off the walls: