"I live in a cooperative house in Berkeley, and this was a typical weekend night of drunk frenzies, hastily smoked cigarettes, and pounding music. We were out on the balcony talking about stupid shit, and I'm standing there and Charlene is talking and I think of a game. Its a fucking stupid game but I interrupt with it.
"Hey Charlene, let's play chicken. We'll put our forearms against each others, and put a lit cigarette in between."
Charlene is down, and we start. I don't feel it at all at first, as a ring of people watches us intently, dancers and music gyrating inside. I start to feel a slow burn after a minute, but its dulled by the alcohol and so localized that its easily tolerable. This goes on, until we look up at each other, neither a loser.
The next morning as my hangover subsides, I crawl out again to the balcony and the sunlight and a cup of coffee. Charlene is out there, holding her own cup, and I see a vicious burn on her forearm. I start to ask, "Hey where'd–" and I stop, nevermind, and I look at my own arm to find my own mark, my own scar in precisely the same place. I consider it a mark and testament to the debauchery of the place I live, a reminder of my own dumb-ass decisions, and a message to myself to live life without regrets. Maybe you should leave out that line because its full of cheese and platitudes."
~Anonymous
~Anonymous
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