I am amazed that you asked me to go out after work for drinks. We hardly ever talked to one another. Oh, and I had just gotten out of a mental hospital after a few days in a coma. 150 pills can do that. Yet, I didn't think your motives were disingenuous and I agreed. Most of my close friends were still away at college, getting ready to graduate, and they needed a break from me. This wasn't the first time I put them through this. I missed them and I needed to be with people. We met others from work and I was both happy to escape my current reality of having had to move back in with my parents, but also terrified at the prospect of spending an evening as the sideshow freak. Yet, you made it seem ok. You. With your tattoos and piercings and “fuck you" attitude. I think the first thing you ever told me was that you were a dick and people should deal with it. And yet, you brought me to this bar and made sure to keep an eye out for me. You got me drinks and continually asked if I was ok. I didn't know you, but I loved you. And I felt like more than anyone else in my world, I wanted to explain to you. Because I knew then, as much as I still know now, that you understood me. Finally, toward the end of the night, we sat at a table. You reached across and grabbed my hands. I started to speak, and then to cry. You told me I didn'’t need to talk, you knew and it was ok. You walked me to the bus, when I was ready to leave. You waited to make sure I was safe. You. With your tattoos and piercings and “fuck you" attitude. The rest of that summer, you were my escort. We went to bars and parties together. When I reached the point of overwhelmed, you appeared, grabbed my hand and told people that we needed to go. You waited for buses with me, walked me to another friend'’s house, or let me sleep in your bed, while you slept on the couch. You kept me going when I really wanted to stop. You saved my life that summer, more so than the paramedics. You. With your tattoos and piercings and
“fuck you" attitude.