I’ll Prove to You All How Much Fucking Fun I Can Be

I’ll show YOU how much fucking fun I am.

I was fuming. Screaming at Curtis through the closed bathroom door and gripping the counter, trying to calm my trembling hands.

Here we were, two of my younger brothers and I, on a tiny Croatian island, rounding out the third week of our 2014 Euro Trip. We were all deprived of sleep and tired of each other, and Curtis and I happened to be in the middle of the biggest fight of our lives.

We had walked home from dinner an hour prior, and Curtis was quiet. I realized he had barely said ten words all evening, and I asked if he was ok. He shrugged and muttered “I’m fine.” I racked my brain for anything anyone had said or done to bother Curtis until we arrived back at the Airbnb. I asked again if anything was wrong.

“No,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I pushed, foolishly. He didn’t respond but gave a look that suggested something was, in fact, very very wrong.

We had made plans to experience island night life on Hvar that Saturday, and we had purchased duty free goods the previous afternoon to prepare. Trying to keep up with my younger siblings on the alcohol front for a month had left me perpetually hungover, but I extended my plastic cup, when Will opened a bottle, to participate in the drinking game of the day.

I don’t totally recall how the fight itself started. Until this point in our trip, the bickering was limited to food preferences and bathroom time and messes and borrowed tank tops. But somewhere in between Rome and Dubrovnik and Hvar, my constant insecurity and Curtis’ back-to-back panic attacks burned into a fiery rage.

As we chatted around the kitchen table, drinking and playing, I commented about “going out” and how tired it made me, how lame I was. I had stayed in the night before, to the boys’ dismay. To be sure, this was a shield, albeit a fragile and unhealthy one. If I say what everyone else may be thinking before they can say it, no one can hurt me. But Curtis, knowing exactly the triggers to pull, provided no reassurance. It felt like confirmation. Confirmation that I was no fun. Boring. Uncool.

We snapped. It was as though we had lit two separate ends of the same firecracker. The fight escalated until we were both yelling, sobbing, and slamming doors. We blacked out, not by booze but by fury. Will and his friend stood between us, a buffer, watching wide-eyed as we hurled a repertoire of personalized insults back and forth across the kitchen.

I shut myself in the bathroom and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I observed my bloodshot, swollen eyes and my tear-stained cheeks, the mascara smeared towards my ears. But mostly, I saw an ageless version of myself, desperate for love and acceptance. I felt I had failed at my self-appointed duty as peacekeeper, and the conflict felt world-changing. I pulled hair off my face and splashed cold water around the sink and up to my neck, to bring me back to the present moment.

Somehow it was collectively decided that the time to go out was then. Out in the streets, I stormed five paces ahead of our pack, energized by my anger; Curtis traipsed five paces behind. As we entered the first club, Curtis made a dash for the bar and returned with a giant jug of long island iced tea and four tall straws. I caught one of them in my mouth when he pushed the pitcher towards me: a peace offering. I gulped down two mouthfuls of sugary sweet toxicity and glared at Curtis. And then, we both laughed hesitantly, testing waters.

I’ll show YOU how much fucking fun I am.

I was intoxicated—increasingly so—and my ego was bruised. I was determined to prove—to Curtis, to the world, to myself—that I could be the life of the party, no matter how destructive and misdirected that intention.

And this is how, as a 24-year-old, I managed to double my total number of make-out partners (from four to eight) over the course of just a few hours. My sober self would certainly regret these decisions in the morning, but the decreased inhibition felt all the more relieving after my nervous system’s earlier adventure in conflict. I felt free and emboldened by the persona I had adopted for the evening—someone who was flirty, aggressive, confident, and “fun.”

Curtis, thank you for being one of the very few people with whom I can feel safe (or as safe as is possible for me) having a full-blown, balls-to-the-wall argument. I love you.

(P.S. I hope your birthday today is as special as you!)