Bonkers was in my kindergarten class. The following year he was in my brother's kindergarten class. Over the years he has:
* Entered class after lunch break with his shirt off because he was hot.
* Purposefully lit his hair on fire inside the white molester "family" van while my mom drove.
* Snuck through my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning so I could zombie-awake to him orchestrating my stuffed animals in various pornographic positions. I was eleven.
* Locked the sloshed babysitter (my uncle) in my parent's bedroom. This resulted in Drunk Babysitter (my uncle) stabbing Bonkers with a flagpole. The metal eagle topping the flagpole ruptured into Bonker's ribs.
* Demanded I remove my shirt to stifle the smoke alarm when I set our kitchen on fire. I was twelve. My breasts were the size of a three-year-old male's.
My twenty-fourth birthday party was as eventful as a church sermon delivered by my God-preaching recovering drug addict uncle who currently flaunts his sexual prowess through exhibiting photos of twenty-something skankasaurus breasts. My eighteenth birthday party was an epic rager.
My friend Pakistan hosted the social lubrication.
By seven-thirty my friends began tallying marks on my arms. On my right arm, each tally represented a consumed beer. On my left arm, each mark represented a consumed shot.
By nine I was belching, staggering, groping others, groping myself, and urinating in the yard.
By ten-thirty my memories plummeted into the abyss of oral diarrhea, liquid legs, and draining a cocktail down my throat constituting chew spits and cigarette butts. I thought it was a beer.
By ten thirty-two my hippocampus ceased functioning. I blacked out.
The next morning my brain became cognizant of life when I sat up and smashed my head into the bunk-bed above me.
The host's car had a shattered window from some delinquent guests.
When I saw my brother, I verbally assaulted him for not coming to my birthday party.
His response: "I held you up for an hour. You stood because of me."