Liam was a fucking loser. His nickname in high school was “Eeyore.” He applied to one local college, got in, and then got on probation. Then he got in a shit-ton of trouble during probation for something retarded. Luckily for us local losers, Liam’s parents were rich and out of town. Eeyore decided to throw a party centered around the theme of him being a total failure. The idea was to party in the family mansion until Monday, when his parents would come home and the administration would issue a disciplinary decision, likely expulsion. The best part was it was only Wednesday.

Now when I say “mansion,” I mean it. There was an indoor pool and when Calvin started walking around, counting all the bedrooms, he got lost. I was flunking out of high school at the time, so Liam tapped me to organize the invitation list. He didn’t want his new fancy friends from college bringing down the vibe and knew that I only kept company with fucktards.

Things got rolling on Thursday when the crust-punks found out there was suddenly a nice place they could sleep at for more than a weekend. Liam’s oligarch parents had a centrally-controlled sound system that let us blare Social Distortion throughout the whole property with the click of a button. Liam stayed in his room that day, insisting on blowing coke enough to make him into Brett Easton Ellis.

The crust-punks were keeping themselves occupied playing knight in the pool when the hippies arrived. They turned the library into a smokehouse and took to discussing the least interesting things imaginable; you know, the way hippies do. That was right about when everyone showed up. Unbeknownst to me, I was popular, and more shocking still, there was widespread sympathy for Eeyore. Not only did every loser under the age of 18 in our home city make it to Liam’s bedlam bash, the same demographic from the neighboring five towns did, too.

Suddenly there were teenagers hanging from the rafters, fucking on the kitchen island, and passing around acid. Shopping lists written in frantic desperation were given to the handful of idiots in attendance old enough to buy booze. The fridge was emptied, somehow filled, and emptied again. In the midst of the madness, Liam’s girlfriend showed up. A legendary cunt with close-cropped hair to seal the deal, she rampaged up the stairs to her man’s childhood bedroom with all the fire and brimstone a five foot one feminist could muster. Back then, I believed I had some kind of power to intervene in bad situations and make them better, so I followed her, hoping to mollify a woman scorned. The door flew open and so did her mouth. Everything she said was malicious and memorable, but she got upstaged. In his infinite wisdom, Liam had realized that cocaine couldn’t make his writing any good, so instead, he’d taken a butcher’s knife and thwacked into the side of his left arm a few times.

In that moment, the party changed…entirely for the better. Liam’s cunt fucking girlfriend had to leave! She took him to the hospital in her little Honda, and with Liam himself gone, whatever pretense of rules and limitations were gone as well. Sure, all the blood was something like a downer, but what was I supposed to do? Tell everyone to go home?

Right then, my girlfriend arrived. She was my moral compass at the time, and since she hated Liam’s cunt fucking girlfriend, she agreed that all of this would be for the best and that the party must go on. Don’t judge me, humble reader, Liam came home in a day or two and later wrote a poem about his scars.

At this point, most people were on acid and either dancing, swimming, or smoking pot. That’s not really relevant, but it is true. My girlfriend (Leah) and I scored some pills. I forget what exactly, but they were great. How great? The guy who sold them to me died of a heroin overdose a few years later—that’s how good these pills were. We set out to mop up the blood Liam doused his room in, but the macabre feel of the undertaking got us both horny, so we started fucking instead. Some 20 minutes later and we realized that the pills were stronger than we’d thought. Neither of us could finish and we were both covered in this funky-smelling sweat. Not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, I kept pounding away as hard as I could. Leah was loving it and gushing the way only teenage babes really can. Her juice was dripping out of her and onto the bloody sheets, further contributing to the bizarre aroma. Another 40 minutes and I pulled out, exhausted. I looked down and learned that you can, in fact, literally fuck until your parts bleed. Hers and mine both, bloodied from the ceaseless friction. The sheets now sported blood from three different people and were drenched in Leah and I’s drug sweat. It was time for a shower.

In terms of hygiene, it proved counter-productive. The two of us were both still super turned on, so after we cut the water, I had her kneel so I could piss all over her beautiful face. She was so fucking eager for it, all smiles and daring eyes. I filled her mouth and then blasted her bust. Then she pulled her hair out of a bun and told me to soil it all. She dipped her head down so all those locks fell in front of her face. Once I’d doused them, she tossed it all back and opened her mouth again. The second I ran dry, she deepthroated my cock, piss still in her mouth, sloshing out the sides and onto my nuts and as she gobbled me up. I ran my hands through her reeking hair and bobbed her head back and forth, wondering what the fuck pharmacy cooked up whatever the fuck it was that we were on.

Perhaps surprisingly, we then went back to that bed to fuck without showering again. She laid out, spread eagle, atop bloody sheets with a sheen of piss across her skin. It was a real honor to shove my gory cock into her. We fucked some more and some more; bleeding, sweating, and reveling. Another hour of pounding went by and still no cum. We went back to the shower and had another round of watersports. But like reasonable young adults, we took a time out from fucking after that, opting instead to be social, go back downstairs, and eat some magic mushrooms.

A lot of things happened after that. I jumped into that pool and came to fully understand the Built to Spill lyric, “When I was a kid I saw a light/Floating high above the trees one night/Thought it was an alien/Turned out to be just God.” Two fake lesbians started hooking up in a living room and one of their boyfriends got furious that everybody crowded around to watch. With a straight face, that motherfucker yelled about how we were disrespecting him and disrespecting his girlfriend by watching. He kept using that word, “disrespecting.” Some people started jerking off, as if this Sapphic tryst might turn bukkake, and with that, the boyfriend blew a gasket. His reasoning pivoted, claiming we were disrespecting Liam’s house. I laughed, claimed to be in charge, and told him he was wrong…and that maybe he needed to get a grip on his girl, not us.

That’s when he swung at me. Since this is autobiographical fiction, I’d like to lie here and say that he missed, and that I then kicked his ass. I have the right to write that. For all you know, none of this ever happened. Don’t I deserve some glory? Shouldn’t I be cool, and maybe tall as well? Who among you, humble readers, would dare call me out on just this one specific detail? You all like me. (?) And you’re on my side. You’d believe it.

Unfortunately, all of this shit is true. That guy slugged me square in the forehead and I went down like timber. My girlfriend straight up burst out laughing. Not crying, laughing. I guess it was the shrooms. And listen, if I had been sober or just drunk, I maybe could have fought this guy long enough to lose decisively. However, on psychedelics and pills, nothing so noble was to transpire. Instead, my boy Owen jump-kicked him from behind. The guy went down as hard and fast as I did, but had a much tougher time getting back up. The next thing I knew, some crust-punks had arrived and escorted him out. His girlfriend stayed, though, which was nice for everyone. Last thing I heard about the boyfriend was that he blew his brains out. Hard to be sure why, seemed like he had a lot going for him.

Maybe it was all the drugs, but I was starting to get worried about the mansion. Nobody could tell me if it was Friday or Saturday, Gigantic Greg had broken a nice chair with his fat ass, and not a few books had been pillaged for rolling paper. Thank God Liam showed up, good as new. He told me that everything was fine, being that nothing mattered. I concurred sternly and said not a word about his mattress. By now, the hippies had divided into two rival camps, with the longhairs keeping the library and the barefoots occupying the main living room. My girlfriend, wooed by their sophistry, ditched me for a mountain of marijuana.

Liam and I looked into each other’s eyes and promised that if only one of us made it, the other would be taken care of. Gigantic Greg interrupted us to reiterate his slogan, “pain is not a thing,” over and over and over again. The second he finally stopped drunkenly muttering, something became incredibly clear to me, as it never had before, but then some chick with a nice rack blew chunks everywhere and I forgot about everything. Shrooms are a helluva drug.

At some point, the fading light indicated our greatest fears were true: it was Sunday, the day of the Lord. During all this chaos, Jeremy got dumped by his manic pixie dream girl, several people dyed their hair in the kitchen sink, and one toilet got clogged with more shit than I have ever seen anywhere. Jessie also had this weird screaming fit, but I can’t remember why. Anyway, all of this was crazy meaningful when it happened. Every detail subject to hours of gossip. The highlights of the party were boasted about for weeks and weeks. Liam birthed a legend. Now? It’s all a dream, a bunch of shit that happened to some fucking freaks. As you might have noticed, plenty of the players cashed out to burn in hell for all eternity. That girlfriend is some type of prostitute and hates my guts. Liam traded that cunt for another cunt, and then a third one who he married. All of it was funny, and every last piece of it ended in tragedy. Anyway, I’m writing porn reviews for XCritic now. I hope you like them.