Aleksander •« ← Casimir •« ← Edwards
:. I'm known as .: :: BOY NUMERO DOS but please call me Alek ::
:. Behind the scenes .: :: Optional Jesus ::
:. My candles .: :: 18 ::
:. I add one every .: :: February 16th ::
:. I am proudly Or not so proudly .: :: Gay ::
:. A word of warning .: :: Unless you are here to offer me a drink, a cig or some kind of euphoric drug…Get. Out. Of. My. Face. I am mostly definitely not a people person. Sure I have friends and we hang out, but that doesn’t mean that I can just openly accept some random person who walks up to me and is all “HEYY BE MYY FRIENDDD” Sorry but no thanks. It doesn’t quite work that way in my book. If you can actually get me to talk to you, than kudos. But good luck on getting me to do anything else.
It’s not that I’m anti-social or anything…or maybe it is that I’m anti-social…I don’t know ok! But whatever it is, I’m just not a people person. I am a junkie. I probably always have a cigarette on me, and if I don’t have a cig, check my pupils they’re probably dilated from the drugs I took about an hour ago, and guess what I’m still coming down from my high. I would say “I could stop whenever I wanted” but that isn’t true. I know it’s not true. I hate myself for this, I really, really do. I couldn’t do anything back then, and I can’t so anything now… ::
:. My secrets .: :: My dad was a pretty heavy drinker when I was growing up. My mum said that he had actually started drinking before I was born. Shocker isn’t it? Well there the kind of people who drink and it makes them overly giddy and happy. And then there are the kinds of people who drink and it makes them depressed and they start spilling the hearts out to random strangers. And finally there are the kinds of people who drink and it makes them aggressive. My dad was one of those people. I had become a victim to his little outbursts quite a few times. And just one day I decided enough was too much. But what could I do? I couldn’t do anything, except try to find a way to cope with it. So what did I do? I befriended the bottle. Not as crazily and haphazardly as my dad, but I did drink…a lot. Going out with friends, to random people’s houses and getting completely smashed, all made me feel numb to everything else. Then after a while, it wasn’t really working anymore. I could drink and drink and drink and it would not effect me the same way as before…The way I wanted it to effect me. So I started to try a few more things. Cigs was one of the first things, and again after a while, I needed a new high, something else to make me numb and forget everything…that’s when I started hitting the harder s**t. ::
:. And this is my story .: :: It all started off quite simply really. My parents were crazy about each other from the time that they laid eyes on each other. They met a long time ago, back when they were stupid teenagers, just like me. The sheer fact that they “loved” each other, and the drive or curiosity, caused them to try a few…things. The result to their childish experiments was…me. Both of them knew that they were way too young to be taking care of a child. They were still children themselves. But either way, they kept me around. My parents both developed a few different ways to cope with the stress of dealing with me, their child.
My dad became very good friends with the bottle, while my mum just took everything as it came. A father, who drank, and a mother, who was just part of the background, all tied together with me, their little bundle of joy. As I got older, I was able to at least “fend” for myself in more than one way. But my dad’s little habits didn’t exactly stop. If anything they gradually got worse as the years went on. You can’t really kick an addiction…And then there was that faithful day. The day my dad snapped. He had been drinking of course, and he seemed a lot drunker than usual. It made me wonder exactly he had mixed together in his glass. I can’t remember what exactly set him off, but whatever it was…man. All I can really remember was a lot of shouting, things being thrown, and then little old me, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Need I go on?
I, quite frankly was getting sick of my dad and his little addiction. If I wasn’t around to be the victim of his little spasms, that only left my mum around…My poor vulnerable little mother. By now I was slightly grown up, I had matured enough to understand exactly what was going on. But I couldn’t really do anything about it. Nope, this was going to keep happening and I had no way to stop it…just thinking about it makes my shoulders feel heavy. I started looking for ways to ease that heaviness. Ways that I am not too proud of… ::
:. I'm hailing from .: :: London, England ::
:. Picture perfect .: :: Eh, I'm tall-ish...? 5'8", 5'9" somewhere around there...and I'm kinda skinny...not unhealthy skinny but skinny nonetheless. I'm kinda sort athletic but I'm lazy so that doesnt really show too much...and since I'm athletic I actually do have muscle mass. Not a lot, but I still have some... ::
:. I almost forgot .: :: Besides the usual alcohol, and drugs, I do actually have one other addiction. One that is less hazardous to my health too. I am almost obsessed with collectible cars. You know, those old antique ones you see in thrift shops and old toys store? Yeah, those. I used to have some as a kid, and I loved them. I’m not exactly sure what happened to them, but if I had to take a guess I’d say that I grew up and they got left behind. ::
