Melancholy and The Infinite Failures

        He had been drinking, but he wasn't drunk. He had also been smoking, but similarly, he wasn't stoned. What he did have was enough alcohol to put him in his typical pensive state which occurred right before he got to the stage where he just went around attempting to fuck things or fuck things up. Consequently, he had just enough THC in his blood to redirect his thoughts from present melancholia to perspective-giving morose memories. His mind raced through the numerous archaic philosophies and lost friends known in his life; his many failures and mistakes and other such depressing thoughts. Triumphs over adversity and moments of pure joy appeared every so often, but their scarcity only stood to accentuate his deficit in uplifting memories. Nihilism and pessimism took the place of actual thought and he just let him self slide down the slippery slope, making no attempt to slow or prevent his fall.

        He was lying in his bed on his back, listening to the rhythmic rumblings of his ceiling fan. Although his eyes were open, the environment and his condition put him in a meditative state where the only sense realized was hearing the fan's steady moan of anguish, decrying its lack of free will. He felt a camaraderie with the fan, and accordingly, its perceived sorrow stood to intensify his own. It was typical of the room to put him in or help along a sullen mood, albeit usually through more rational methods. It's lurid aesthetics, derived from years of abuse from his family and his general lack of motivation towards improvement in any area, although more profound when concerned with his home, were sure to depress the most optimistic soul. The room was a mess, clothes with no differentiation between clean and dirty were scattered at every corner and surface, obscuring various broken electronics, books lacking the merit to be properly filed away, and a myriad of papers ranging from freshman year report cards to SAT scores and everything in between. Usually he kept the room in adequate form, but as of late the steady decline in quality reflected his exponentially increasing lugubrious mind-set. Even with all the variables kept well maintained, the room could never be aesthetically pleasing with just the motions of a simple or even extensive cleaning. The numerous holes and bad paint jobs of angst ridden siblings(and the occasional one from himself) would take a monumental effort to fix; something he considered pointless taking into account the short remainder of time he planned to stay in this residence. With this knowledge, he adopted the pessimistic notion that since the room could never reach a level of even modest desirability, keeping it clean was a Sisyphean task. He ignored the obvious pragmatic advantages in keeping the area free of clutter, but a youth facing an existentialistic crisis can never be bothered with logical digression.

        After a long period of inactivity, he rolled over and buried his face in a pillow, this physical action indicating a similar mental movement. He was in fact turning over his options for ending the night. He could return from his self imposed exile and engage in more teenage hedonism, which would get him through the night, but make his morning far more unpleasant. However, to remain in this dark and lonely environment, looking back upon his life, applying a fatalistic philosophy to every experience, good or bad, would be pure masochism. Neither path would eliminate suffering and he wasn't looking for a choice with that benefit, rather he was searching for which way would minimize his unavoidable misery. Suddenly, he got up and headed for the door, apparently having made the decision to further partake in this night of heavy drinking. The unavoidable hangover in the morning wouldn't be fun, especially with the all cleaning that would have to be done, but at least the physical discomfort would take his mind away from more acute mental suffering.

        He opened his door and stumbled into the light and teenage lust, heading down the hall in a purposeful stroll. He passed his bathroom on the right, where two drunken girls were incomprehensibly espousing the longevity their friendship would certainly obtain with much emotion and slurred speech.He stood watching them for several seconds, envious of the dramatic state they drank themselves into. They turned to look at him and he continued on to his attempt to move into their situation of artificial significance. He entered into the hub of the party, the kitchen, where a especially competitive game of beer pong was taking place. The teenagers were rapt as the players lined up and tried to hit that final, elusive cup. Even he was semi-interested in the outcome as he scanned the area for intoxicating beverages. He headed towards the fridge, making his ways through the spectators, and opened it up. While he was rummaging through its contents, he heard the ever satisfying plop of a perfect shot and expected jovial outburst that followed. He turned from his forage, even his desire to end his semi-sober status couldn't prevent him from viewing the outcome of such a intense game.

        He used to play beer pong. He still did on occasion but it didn't enamor him as it once did, when he played it which the intense fervor of a life or death matter. He used to be good too. He and his perpetual teammate(Who had just hit that beautiful shot) would come in and kill the competition until: They got bored and decided to lose, ran out of beer or if they were in the competitive mood, liquor, or most often, became too drunk to stand. Many a memorable nights had ended with them leaning on each other's shoulder, shooting beautiful arcs which miraculously still went in. But they reached the pinnacle so quick, there was nowhere else to go. Playing and winning became so easy, it was soon done by rote. The love and respect he felt for the game soon faltered. So he had the ability to shoot a ping pong ball into a small cup, what did that really mean in regards to anything? He abjured his hyperbolic notions of supposed transcendence present in the game and began to regard it as just a common, desultory activity whose only purpose was to get people drunk faster. He now only played it when there was no liquor around because drinking beer outside of the context of drinking games was not something he enjoyed. The one thing he was ever good at in life and in the grand scheme it meant nothing. Even compared to most hobbies it was especially trivial. However, for nostalgia's sake, he still became attentive in close games such this one where he felt some of the old allure and excitement return to him.

        At the table, the opposing team lined up to take the nerve racking redemption shot. The game was on the line and pressure showed on every inch of the players faces. Every ounce of brain power was focused on getting the damn ball into that motherfucking cup. Alas, it was not to be as both missed, although the last shot get the inside of the cup and bounced out, which made the defeat even more painful. The room erupted into a melee of celebration or mourning, depending who the person was cheering for, as the losers slouched off in respectful defeat, not ashamed by the close lose, while the winners completed the requisite rituals of triumph. "Team Wet to Death cannot be beaten! Seven and O! Seven and O baby! Who's next?" the team screamed in drunken harmony at the peak of euphoria. A smile came to his face as old memories washed over him. He used to live for such moments, before they became commonplace and banal. His mind turning to jovial nostalgia, he had half a mind to call downs and face his old partner when a tidbit of unpleasant information reached his ears."Dude, we're out of beer." stated a youth holding up an empty 24 pack. The winning team became even more celebratory as there was always a special joy at running the table. No one seemed to mind as most of the party goers seem well into the stages of intoxication. Unfortunately, he was growing more sober by the minute and thoughts of pessimism were returning to him. "What the FUCK!" he yelled and the room acknowledged his presence for the first time.

        "Yanin! Did you just see that amazing finish?" his past teammate asked him as imitated the throwing motion to emphasize just how monumental the finish was." Yeah Steven, I did, but what is really more important is that the alcohol, which I remember to have thrown down quite a bit of money for, is completely gone."Steven looked at him dumbfounded for several seconds, apparently unable or unwillingly to accept a person stuck in the dreadful confines of sobriety.  His partner however, still elated over the recent win, decided it was the perfect opportunity to boast about the team's exploits and began his epic story of conquest. Stuck within his drunken self-importance, he failed to discern the emotional state Yanin was in."See what happened here is these unfortunate souls had the misfortune of me and Steve deciding it was in our best interest to team up one last time to show them how the game is played. Even though we said we wouldn't be on the same team, that we are just too dominant, we had to do one last time. Because..." He tapered off when instead of seeing the anticipated amusement, Yanin displayed a show of irritation as ostentatious as possible to make sure his intentions cut through the teens' inebriated daze. The raconteur obviously wanted to continue the story but even he could sense it just wasn't the right time. Plus, being a close friend of Yanin's he figured it might be a good idea to provide comfort and support in a time of obvious distress. Putting some thought into the matter though, he decided the greatness of the story outweighed Yanin's need for emotional support and he departed the room, certainly to dazzle a more appreciative audience with his great narrative.

        His lack of consideration fazed Yanin little, but he was already at the breaking point, and this aggravation, minor as it was, may have pushed him over the edge. He held his hand, which was shaking uncontrollably, level to his eyes and seem determined to get it under control to no avail. The crowd was absorbed with these proceedings. He seemed poised for an outburst which would surely result in him kicking everyone out. He put his hand down to his side and stood in silence for several seconds, scanning the room and its inhabitants. Finally, he spoke up, apparently having regained his composure."So are we really out of beer? Or is this one of those situations where a twelve or twenty four pack is stowed away for when the undesirables leave or one last beer pong game?" He inquired to Steven, who had been put in charge of the beer. He shook his head sadly. He opened his mouth to apologize but Yanin put up his hand to stop him. He ran his hands though his hair and sighed, then spoke to the crowd,"Does anyone here have alcohol of any sort or better yet, some fucking weed? I know you youths aren't too keen on sharing, but for since it is my home can someone be courteous once in their lives?" The crowd, which was diminishing speedily after realizing no outburst was going to occur, all answered the question with a negative. It was almost certain someone did have some illicit substance, but didn't feel the need to be charitable to him. He admitted to himself that he would of not shared in a similar situation, but this confession did nothing to change his contemptuous opinion of them. He stood in the middle of the kitchen statuesquely, spreading his malice mentally among the remaining revelers. Finally Steven, who had grown weary of this open display of antipathy,  came over from his leaning stance against the table and exclaimed,"You know, people might be more accommodating if you weren't such a fucking dick!" "Fuck you! People come, a lot of them uninvited, fuck up my house and I don't- " "You wreck your house more than anyone else!"  "When I'm drunk, which I'm not!" he replied, as if this statement was the most rational thing in the world. It was true that he had ill feelings towards his home and did have a tendency to start throwing stuff when he was severely intoxicated, but it was his home, he had the right too."I don't know why you are so mad. What, did Roan not let you hit or something? You had to get something at least. The way you go on about her, whatever happened had to be worth at least one night of sobriety." " What the hell are babbling about?" "Everyone saw you two walk down the hall together. And you know perfectly well no one walks down that hall for innocent purposes." "You mean she hasn't come back yet?" "What? No one has seen her since you two left together."  Steven said, realizing something had went wrong.

          The reality of the situation was different from the general perception and in actuality was what had inspired his descent into depression. It was well known among his group of friends that he found this girl incredibly beautiful, even though the majority considered her decent at best. Leading up to the event, it was generally acknowledged that they were going to hook up. He even got most of his friends to swear off of going after her, which was hard to do since the party had the typical ratio of two guys for every girl. Even she had some slight impression that he was going to attempt such a move and seemed to make no objections, if not necessarily encourage it. Her personality didn't provide much interest to him in normal states,and as such, any occurrence between them was certified not to lead to a relationship. No one expected that type of thing to happen. It was just someone to spend the night with, have some fun with, not even necessarily having sex or even anything beyond making out, but still providing the type of emotion comfort so dearly needed by adolescents on the cusp of adulthood.

        As the night began and progressed, it seemed more and more likely that this was going to come about. A couple hours in, having consumed relatively the same amount of alcohol, he had a nice little buzz going on while she, being a female, was quite drunk. It was around this time that they took the walk that Steven had witnessed. The plan was to play some Mario Kart 64 in his room after Roan had questioned his ability in the game and threw down a challenge, which was the equivalent of questioning his manhood. As they traversed the hall, which was very lengthy as people never failed to point out when under the influence of anything, heading towards his room located at the end, he noticed a slightly ajar door at the midpoint and low mumblings floating from the crack. He found this troubling as it was his little sister's room and at the beginning of each party he reiterated his rules, a major one being which rooms were off limit, this being one of them. This blatant disregard for his rules was not a rare incident, as teenagers in general lack a respect in authority, even when the power resides in one of their own, and when alcohol is added to the mix they become even more irreverent while the few respectful ones develop a new found sense of rebellion or a tendency to forget certain well worn maxims. Considering this assurance of at least moderate anarchy, it was not often that he found enjoyment and pleasure in parties thrown at his house. Which wasn't something he was striving for when having such events. What he was vying for was social status. Throw a few parties and suddenly your fame shoots through the roof. People from every end of the county suddenly knew your name even if you didn't know them. Maybe it was an empty pleasure, but he still found satisfaction when going about your daily business, a person who you had no knowledge of ever meeting came up to you and commented on the quality of the party of your's that he or she were in attendance. Then a conversation would begin narrowing it down to the exact party this person was at and usually the discussion would then turn to upcoming parties which you were automatically invited to for prior contributions to the party movement, and with luck, you had a whole new slew of nights to look forward to. If the parties were typically a night of vexation and constant worry, he considered it an appropriate price to pay for the entertainment it would bring in return. He usually even stayed sober until the party died down and the majority of the people had left.

        Tonight was different though. He had a goal and he promised himself he would leave his anxiety and despotic actions behind and focus on achieving his objective. Which is why when passing by this malfeasance, his intent was to let it be. If he did choose pursue this misconduct, all that would result was a time consuming harangue of the perpetrators, seeing as that was the limit of his administrative powers for small offenses. If serious crimes were occurring then he could round up some larger members of his clique and exile the offenders, but this was probably just some lust struck teens on the way to consummating their love. He had much better things to occupy his time than yelling diatribes against some mostly innocuous teens. However, as he passed the room he detected the subtle aroma of smoke, and not the pleasant smell of marijuana but tobacco's horrendous scent. Smoking inside the house was going against another one of his rules although he had tolerated it tonight being far too absorbed in his own concerns to care or, for the most part, even notice. But this was smoking in his an off limit room, the synergistic effort of the two crimes raising it from a simple misdemeanor that he could let slide. He stopped to ponder the situation and Roan, seeing him, did the same. "What's wrong?" she asked. He looked at her and studied every beautiful curve and angle, wanting with every ounce of his will power to just walk on and enjoy the night with this angelic figure, but his nature wouldn't let him." I have a small situation to resolve but it will only take a couple minutes or so. Get everything ready and be there in a few to disprove your baseless claims." She murmured in assent and resumed walking to his room tentatively, taking small glances backward.

        He turned to face the door, bemoaning his responsibility with irritated groans, and pushed it open, readying scathing verbal abuses for proclamation. He did find a girl and guy engaged in a carnal activity, although not the one he had expected. He knew the female through fleeting glimpses only, never actually meeting her, but the male was good friend of his which made the incident even more enraging. The two were sitting on the bed with a mirror in front of them, making lines of coke and giggling over some humorous esoteric knowledge. At his entrance, they merely nodded in affirmation, thinking nothing of their infractions. Because of the male's close proximity to Yanin, they believed that he transcended the laws of the land and, therefore, she did also by association. Unfortunately, this belief was not universally held and the arrogance of this notion infuriated Yanin. "What the fuck are you doing Daniel!" He looked up from his motions surprised. " What, do you want a line or two?" he asked, assuming the anger was caused by him not being generous enough to offer Yanin access to these goods when the event began as normally was the case. The stimulation it provided was helpful in his attempts to keep some sanity present in the mix but knowing his objectives, Daniel rightfully surmised that Yanin wouldn't have the desire for the drug tonight. "Why you think rules don't apply to you?" he asked antagonistically. Daniel finally discerned the purpose of the intrusion and realized it was necessary to make amends. He quickly snorted his lines, got up, and began the requisite series of insincere apologies in an attempt to diffuse the situation. Unfortunately for him, throughout this act of atonement, Daniel smoked a cigarette steadily which voided the intended effect of alleviating the situation and prompted an increase in the animosity towards him. "For further reference, your contrite act might be more believable if you weren't breaking a rule while you spoke it." Confusion set in for Daniel as he tried to recall which one of the many rules he was disobeying. Yanin stayed mute in hope that all lucidity was not lost on this young soul. Alas, even the double stimulation from the nicotine and cocaine couldn't jog his memory and he remained dumbfounded. The female accompanying him fortunately remembered, through her coke fueled ecstasy, the code of conduct laid out at the beginning of the night and spoke up, ending the standoff. Being informed of his transgression only stood to amplify his puzzlement at the whole scene and so he set out to clarify the situation. "You have been virtually ignoring this rule throughout the night, why is it such a pressing concern now? Aren't you supposed to be hooking up with Roan tonight? Or did you already fuck that up?" "No, me and her having been together all night. In fact, I'm supposed to be playing Mario Kart with her right now."he uttered wistfully "Then why the fuck are you here? Are you trying to ruin your chances of getting laid tonight?" It was Yanin's turn to face confusion and memory loss, as he not recall why it ever seem like a good idea to come in here. Why was he wasting precious time that could be spent in the presence of angel berating some coke heads who had enough trouble in their lives? "I don't know." he murmured softly and rushed out the door with a renewed sense of urgency. "What the hell is wrong with that kid?" inquired his female company. Daniel shook his head and stated,"No one knows. All I know is that the stress he caused me with his rude interruption put me in need of another line."

        He moved back on the bed and broke out his stash, which contained enough for one more moderately sized line. He went through the motions of creating the line, grabbed the rolled up dollar, and snorted away the last of his week's paycheck. Finished with this vice, he felt it good time to move on to the next prurient delight and leaned over to kiss the girl who was lying down, enjoying the blissful tremors washing over her body. After a few insinuating kisses, he began caressing her voluptuous body and kissing her neck, working his way down when she whispered in his ear, "You should probably lock the door so we don't another obstacle to our fun tonight."He gave her one last quick peck before getting up to complete his duty as man to make the environment suitable for any actions which may or may not take place. Failure to do so a first time had been detrimental to his credibility but not enough to lose his catch. He reached the door and was about to close when Yanin emerged from seemingly nowhere. The look of joy present on his face when he left was replaced by a more familiar dolorous expression. Daniel stared at him with his hand on the door know, ready to close the door at any moment, wondering why he had returned. "Look," he began,"I'm really sorry about how I acted earlier. I was rather harsh and-" Daniel, being his friend for many years, immediately saw through his disingenuous ways and cut him off mid sentence. "I'm out, really. You know I always let you have a line or bump even when I can't afford it but i'm really out. So unless you came to yell at me some more about how much of a fuck up I am, I would really appreciate if you let me attend to my business."Yanin stared at him mournfully for several more seconds, knowing he was speaking the truth, but hoping for something, anything. Daniel began closing the door slowly and he finally relinquished, slouching off in the same state. With the door finally closed and locked,  the couple returned to their past activities, quickly forgetting the whole unpleasant incident.

             
        What had happened when Yanin joyously entered his room, expecting a transcendent night which came to him so rarely, was the person whose company he desired so greatly was no where to be found. He waited for several minutes, pacing up and down nervously, anticipating her return at any moment. As the minutes flew by and he remained the room's sole occupant, his spirits fell at a alarming rate from the zenith they had attained. Various scenarios of betrayal raced through his head. He became certain that someone had successfully carried out a malicious plot to prevent him from succeeding in his conquest, and he let happen because he was busy with matters which became more and more trifling as times progressed. That there was a logical explanation for her absence never was even considered as only the worse hypothetical outcomes were thought possible. The way he saw it now was the only method to prevent the night from becoming one of those colossal failures which would  continue to haunt his soul for the rest of his high school career was through a dose of manufactured euphoria. This theory inspired him to revisit his previously unappreciated friend and make the request that came to no fruition. The lack of any substance which would nullify his bad experiences for at least a brief time caused a further decline into depression which, in pure myopic form, he considered the nadir of his short existence. He went to his room and entered into the half conscious melancholy meditation of life first found to be in. It wasn't solely this occurrence which put him in this stasis, but a continuity of events ending in failure and general atmosphere of melancholy languishing about him which converged at the appropriate moment to wreak havoc on his constitution. At the moment, he possessed the inscrutable idea that forces, internal and external, contrived to ensure that every plan and action of his led to insurmountable anguish. Even moments of happiness were thought to be just prologues to greater agony. The few joyous occasions were just setups to foreseen sublime occurrences which invariably, through a combination of cosmic irony and his own penchant for fucking up, metamorphed into horrendous abortions. He meticulously brought up every memorable occasion and administered this doctrine to every facet of the experience. He lingered in this form of consciousness for a good half hour before abandoning it in search of hedonistic pleasure and coming into the situation found in now. 
   
        The knowledge of the false perception of his activities since he was last seen forced the whole affair to come flashing back, further augmented into realms of sorrow and regret. While he was contending with these memories, Steven was making numerous inquiries into the matter which he attempted to ignore until they increased in malice. Finally the questions were changed into a long tangent expressing his incredulity at Yanin's failure at secure Roan's companionship for the night "I didn't think it possible, even for you, to fuck up with her. You didn't even have any competition. I mean, I had half a mind to hook up with her myself, but I didn't out of respect for you since it's your house. Plus, it would of been too easy and therefore no fun." He continued on with his malicious ramblings, not seeing Yanin's fist and teeth clench more and more with each syllable. Surely a fight would of erupted if one more drop of alcohol was contained in the victim of these scathing insults blood. Suddenly it looked as the breaking point was reached as Yanin made movements indicating he was going to swing on Steven, who was still too enamored with his drunken digressions to notice any bad will directed towards him. Luckily, a noise coming from the adjacent living room distracted the belligerent youth from his intentions. The sound was the twang of a badly out of tune guitar attempted to be played a figure surely as out of tune as the instrument. He went to the room to confirm his suspicions, which were that it was his instrument from which the discordant melody was coming from. He was correct, as some artistic youth had borrowed it without asking in the discourteous manner characteristic of the night. Yanin went over to resolve this situation of ill manner, ostensibly angry but in actuality just wanting to end the situation he was already in. If it came to blows between the two it would inevitably end up the worse for him, now and and in the future. As he left suddenly, Steven saw his victim had diverted his attentions elsewhere and nothing else was to be procured from the incident, So he went off in search of his partner to tell his part in the great victory in the beer pong games of June 17th, 2007.

        The borrowing of the item without his permission didn't anger Yanin anymore than anything else that occurred that night, partly because the male's intentions were good  and the offense was probably the most innocuous he encountered that night. The kid wasn't just some drunken fool hitting notes but actually had some expertise in the matter. Unfortunately, the lack of tuning and a missing string presented a potent obstacle in making any of his well constructed melodies anything less than lurid. If the kid had permission asked he would of given it to him with no hesitation. Still, he couldn't just let things be, not now. His anger had to have some outlet, even at the expense of a well meaning bard and the people enjoying his mini concert. He went over to the couch where the person was located and hastily snatched the guitar away. " Next time, would you do me a favor and ask before using one of my things, ok." he said and walked away before the befuddled adolescent or one of his fans had the opportunity to argue the repossession.

        Like beer pong, playing the guitar was a hobby of his that fell out of favor, except the possibilities were much greater. He picked it up freshman year, as most kids do with such hobbies, because he needed something to occupy his time besides getting high. Plus, he lived a good ways out from civilization, so any people based activity was out of the question. Nearly every day after school, he brought out his cheap acoustic guitar and practiced his chords and easy melodies, folk classics and nursery rhymes. He didn't practice it religiously and had no musical aspirations, he saw it for what it was, something to waste time  and maybe get him laid in the future. He was never good, but after four months, he became almost adequate at it and who knows what sonorous songs he would of been able to perform if he kept at it. But it fell victim to his quality of character as every other hobby. One day while performing a lengthy classical work of great beauty, the sixth string suddenly snapped, leaving his composition unfinished. He promised this misfortune wouldn't prevent him from obtaining his much desired musical ability and that he would get the necessary string and restring it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, things just kept coming up, arguments with his mother, parties, dates, detentions, movies that just had to be seen on opening day, and so tomorrow became next week which became next month and so on and so forth. Two year later, he had forgotten nearly everything he had learned about playing the instrument. It lay in his room in a corner the whole time, collecting dust, just another memento of failed opportunities. Acquiring the guitar along with the memories it provided was just the right thing to transform his anger into the other emotional state possessed by him that night.
 
    He meandered down the hall for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, thinking about the varying dispositions the long hall had witnessed that night, almost as many as holes in the walls. He was more pensive than melancholy, which made the depression less acute, but its existence more intricate and therefore more likely to affect him in the following days. He stumbled to his door, but was surprised when it refused his attempts to open it. He put his ear to the door and heard the distinct sound of a couple of in the process of heavy foreplay. The last incident had all but desensitized him to any such event lacking consideration, so when he knocked there wasn't a note of anger, but rather a weary, pleading tone. He heard the hasty movements of the teens, trying to hide their salacious ways from the interloper. He knocked again, and the door inched open to reveal the face of one his many acquaintances. "What?" he inquired accusingly. "Well, the situation is, as much as I would like you to have fun, your activities are preventing me from using my room, which is actually a slight problem" "No, this isn't your room, that is." pointing to a room slightly down the hall and to the left. "You're not a omnipotent being, simply saying something doesn't make it true." "But she told me that it was." "Who's she?" He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, intent on not disclosing his source after brief consideration. He pushed opened the door, intent on discovering clues to the hidden source his friend was so quick to veil in secrecy. Empirical evidence and rational discourse converged at the same instant to reveal the identify of the other member of the situation. It was so obvious, he should of realized it the moment the door was opened, who else would he be so hesitant to reveal. As he set down his guitar in its usually corner next to his bed, he saw a blue girl's Hollister T shirt lying on his bed, the very same that Roan was wearing, at the same instant his mind developed one of the first lucid thoughts of the night.
 
        He turned to his friend and signed,"It's not necessary to try to spare my feelings in this matter when you haven't at any other step of the way. You can come out Roan." He looked around for the inevitable emergence, which happened when she stepped out of the shadows of his large walk-in closet, looking slightly ashamed and guilty. Her shirt was off, her white bra and pale skin standing out against the dark background, and the zipper on her pants all the way down , the item in the process of being inched off. The threesome exchanged looks amongst themselves, unsure of the proper course of action to take. Suddenly, the door burst open and an amiable couple was on the verge of entering when they saw the view. Processing the the information, they quickly closed the door, embarrassed at finding a situation they surely believed to be an expression of hidden carnal desires. Roan, realizing the compromising appearance she possessed, quickly arranged her pants into a state of normalcy, picked up and put her shirt back on. The accompanying youth, having a similar epiphany about intruders misconception of the events, set out to correct the couple to the actuality of picture before the dangerous rumor had an opportunity to spread. Yanin did not obtain such a sense of purpose so quickly and  stood mute in the same position while this flurry of activity took place, his eyes following Roan's every movement.
   
        After she had finished recovering a sense of propriety, she turned around and locked eyes with her silent accuser. She threw her arms in distress and exclaimed," Stop looking at me like that! I didn't do anything wrong. I have the freedom to do what I want." "You're right, You didn't break a fucking contract or anything. Nonetheless, I was really looking forward to spending time with you tonight. I'm just disappointed, not even at you, just at the whole situation." "If you wanted to spend tonight with me so fucking badly, why the hell did you take so long? Was it impossible to overcome your innate desire to complain for hours about trivial matters for even one night? Am I of such little importance to you? And I really wanted to spend time together too, but I can only wait for so long." "Are you that fucked up you don't have an accurate sense of time. I took maybe five minutes-" He suddenly recalled the little tidbit of information exclaimed by her suitor. It haven't made sense then but in this context it fully illuminated the night's events. "Are you fucking kidding me! Whose room do think this is?" "I don't know, one of your many siblings or something. Why, is-" "Yeah, this is mine." "But last time I was here, when I smoked for the first time, you said the other one was your's." "That was two months ago. I moved into this one about a month ago." "How the fuck was I supposed to know that?" "You weren't." Yanin turned around to face the wall, breathing intensely, feeling the urge to add to it's collection of holes, each one a memorabilia of some past melancholy or rage. But somehow this experience seemed bigger than the one's which caused those acts of vandalism. To lump it in with them would somehow trivialize it's profundity.

        He hadn't made any big mistakes that night, but rather several smaller ones which added up to a large one. If he had ignored the petty transgressions of his friends, he would of accompanied her to the correct room. If he had realized her ignorance of his move, he could informed of it. If he wasn't so quick to believe the worst and went to look for her, he would of probably found her, considering she was in a room only several feet away, and they would of looked back on the incident with great amusement. He wasn't completely at fault, as it should of been easy for her to realize from the decor and furnishing it wasn't his room, but it was only one mistake to his many and she had a better excuse than him. The night seemed to epitomize his life, a never ending sequence of fuck ups fueled by his indomitable mindset. He could pinpoint the negative qualities within him, but whenever he attempted to change one of them, he only stood to enlarge them. Maybe he had to stop tackling them as separate problems but face them as whole, completely abandoning every personality trait he possessed as a human being, finding religion or becoming an ascetic or some other axiomatic course to finding contentment. He turned to face Roan again, who was smiling amicably, finding the incident a source of enjoyment. " Lighten up. How often does a series of misunderstandings like this occur in the real world. In the end, everything worked out fine." she said upon seeing his stoic face, trying to cheer him up. His expression remained emotionless however, and she went over to him to give him a endearing hug to reaffirm her commitment to him, which he returned half heartily.  Another one of those forks in the road of life appeared, and the options were run through his decision making process. Although this girl was as beautiful as ever, the fact that she had already hooked up with someone that night made her undesirable to him. It was pure pride that motivated the impending disavowal of her. He felt that anything done with her would be committed with thoughts of inferiority because of him being second, even though he was her first choice. He just couldn't foresee a night of happiness. Even though this notion was transcending the possible tryst into more than the drunken hookup it would be, he couldn't prevent his sober mind from having these beliefs. He was in no way blaming her, he would of did the same thing in her position, but still couldn't help feelings resentful towards. Surely the rarely used lascivious side of him would make him forget his self important ideals once the atmosphere turned sensuous and the expected activities became a reality, but at the moment his emotions wouldn't let him progress to that stage. He absolutely knew he would regret this later on, but he lacked the strength to overcome his innate will. 

        He ended the hug with her and said, "I'm sorry Roan, but I just feel like being alone right now. I'm just feel like going bed right now, its been a long night." She stepped back to study him, trying to figure what brought about this change. "Well ok, I'm sorry that-" "You have nothing to be sorry for." She turned around and walked out of the room looking hurt, turning around for one last glance before closing the door. She would get over this rejection, probably around the same time when he became truly cognizant of what he had done and went into a frenzy of self loathing, resulting in a destruction of what ever was closest.

        He went over to his bed, lay down, and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep before that dreadful realization came. He rolled around, hoping to find a comfortable position to increase his chances of sleep. At the side of the bed closest to the wall, he felt something under him. He sat up and saw the object of discomfort. It was a pack of guitar strings. It surely belonged to Roan's  associate, who was a off and on guitar player in a local hardcore band. It must have fell out one of his pockets. Surprisingly, they were for an acoustic guitar. Maybe the band was planning a departure into more melodious grounds for their next album. He threw them to the ground and tried to sleep again, although he already knew it was no use. He rolled around for several more minutes, making a mess out of his bed, before he gave up on attaining sleep. He didn't want to stay in this room, but he didn't dare leave to chance seeing Roan again. He stared at the door while contemplating a plan to climb out his window and take a walk down the barren, rural highway until he realized the stupidity of that action and went back to make another go at sleeping.

        While in the middle of the parameters of this plan, his door was opened and in popped Roan's serenader with obvious intentions. "Hey man, have you seen any guitar strings in here. I think they fell out of my pocket when I was in here." They were actually less than two feet from him, but he didn't see them, and Yanin, out of spite, decided not to tell him."No, I haven't, but I'll look for in the morning and if I find them, give to you next time I see you. But for now, I'd really like some peace and quiet." The youth looked ready to object and ask to look for them now, but Yanin sent him a stern look which said everything. He had already caused much enmity tonight, it would not be appropriate to chance anymore hostility. He looked over the room quickly, but missed his item, which was somewhat camouflaged by a mess of video game controllers and their wires. He gave an insincere remorseful smile, and left as hastily as he entered.

        He didn't mention the whereabouts of the strings out of pure spite, but the mention of them gave him a better and more ambitious idea than the masochistic walk. He locked the door to prevent any more interruptions, picked the previously disregarded strings and went over to his guitar. He didn't quite know how to restring a guitar, but he could follow directions well, which were contained in the package, and he was sure with time he could work out a satisfying result. He opened the package and began the long, tedious process. His mind was so occupied with this operation, every worry and affliction of his was pushed to the side. For the moment, he was content. But such contentment can only last so long when arising from ephemeral means. When he was complete with the restringing, he realized that more was necessary to make the guitar playable. He would have to tune it.  He did it several times but never mastered the ability, never able to find the right tone. He usually got a friend better versed in musicianship to do it for him. He still had the tuning instrument though and would at least attempt it. He got down and crawled under his bed, pulling out the various shoe boxes containing every souvenir of any experience or ambition of his he could keep. There was no organization to them whatsoever, so finding the needed apparatus would be hard. The first box opened contained numerous movie tickets dating back to 2004, pictures of freshman football games, two broken cell phones, and a worn paperback copy of On the Road. The next two boxes contained similar items and he endured the memories flooding back to him, focused on his goal.

        This motivation was not genuine, but a tactic to hide from his troubles. He may have succumbed to apathy for everyday life, but when truly necessary, he could do some amazing things. But truly necessary invariably meant pulling himself out of a troublesome situation rather than preventing him from being in it in the first place. Finally, on the forth box, which had held Van's for when he briefly experimented with skateboarding right after he gave up on his musical aspirations, he found his pitch pipe. He set out on his task, expecting to find it even more arduous than it was before. Which was fine, because he was rather tired now and would of been content in giving up on the whole thing. However, his senses seemed to amplified by adversity of the night and the tones produced by the guitar and pitch pipe seemed richer and more vibrant than they'd ever been. It was no problem to find the right position for the tuner for the correct pitch. Everything just seemed to fall into place. After completing the task, he absentmindedly plucked the strings, listening to the rich, resonant tones echo from the guitar's sound board. He held the guitar before him, admiring his work and the guitar itself. It did cost him 200 dollars after all, which while cheap for a guitar was a princely sum for him, especially at the time. After a few seconds, his satisfied smile turned upside and he set the guitar down, slightly troubled. When he first set about restringing the guitar, he didn't believe he would attempt to tune it and succeeding wasn't even a option, let alone a viable one. As such, he completely ignored the fact that he had lost all ability to play the instrument. The decision for renewal of the guitar wasn't a pragmatic decision, but a philosophical one. By achieving even this small and insignificant objective, he was showing the world that he wasn't utter failure in life. Because it made him content until at least the morning, when he had other means to keep his spirits up, who the world was and why such a trifling achievement would prove anything to them was not a topic of discussion. He couldn't give up now, after he had succeeded against all the odds so far in this endeavor.

        He couldn't recall any songs he once knew, but he was sure he could read music sheets well enough to produce a short, slight melody with enough tries. All he had to do was find the music books. He expected them to be in the unopened boxes underneath his bed, but as they were removed and their contents examined, he came up empty handed. He then went into a frenzy, looking in every location, logically or illogically, trying desperately to find the instructional booklets so this episode didn't just become another validation of his fatalistic philosophy. It was to no avail however, and he succeeded in nothing but further destroying his environment. He sat down on his bed, breathing heavily, looking at the newly created mess blending in with the older mayhem. There were several other locations around the house where they theoretically could be, but he didn't want to risk any awkward encounters. He wasn't particularly concerned about his lack of success since it wasn't expected anyway, although in the morning he was sure he would bemoan his lack of further efforts in this venture, along with the complaints of his many other failings of the night, until he had a couple cups of coffee to chase away the pessimism. He had succeeded in his goal, to occupy time until exhaustion replaced his artificial motivation created to supersede any negative emotion. Ergo, he was perfectly fine in writing the night into history as was. He stripped down to his boxers and spread out on his cool sheets, immediately drifting off, worn out physically and mentally.

        Ethereal images and scenes began hovering before him as consciousness slipped from him. He was sitting around a table, engaged in some elliptical conversation with some vaguely defined figure and various colors flashing about in the background. Accompanying these visuals was a gorgeous and anonymous classical piece, fully orchestrated with a choir. He paid full attention to it, ignoring the other aspects of the dream, trying to figure out its name or where he had heard it. Suddenly, he placed it, and the realization forced him to consciousness. It was the last piece needed to complete his unfinished business. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, shaking the grogginess from him and sharpening his mind for the task ahead. The composition he heard in his dream was a much more complex version of his favorite piece and was in fact the last song he ever played.  He played it so often that it was stilled stored deep within his memory and all he needed was his subconscious to unearth it from its confines. He picked up his guitar and sat down, legs crossed. He began slowly at first, only remembering a percentage of the notes; but for every note played, another one came calling to add its beauty to the melody. His playing became faster and faster until it resembled a fully cohesive piece. After progressing through it for six times, he felt that the next attempt would be true perfection. A  accomplishment transcending every other that had occurred so far in his lifetime. Even when he played guitar regularly, he never found his rendition satisfying, but now he believed he could finally pay a fitting tribute to the song's immerse beauty. And so he began, playing every note and chord with exact precision and timing. And then it hit it, an intense warmth, a feeling of incredible happiness, like he had snorted several lines of coke or popped some Adderall or done some other power stimulant, except it was real, not artificial euphoria which would only make him feel worse in the long run. The feeling of creating something so great was truly amazing. All the worries in his life seemed to be trivialized into things not even worth thinking about.

        Then it happened, the exact same string during the exact same chord as before. He stared down at it in disbelief, then got up and placed the guitar back in its resting place. After he set it down, he stared at it for several seconds and then let out a loud laugh. The cosmic irony was too great for him to perceive the events in a negative fashion. And if it was another reiteration of his philosophy of defeat, he was too tired to cite it as such. The way he played the song which such grace and skill, even if he only completed half of it, left him in a upbeat mood and he retired to his bed with happy thoughts. Sleep encompassed him in seconds, and with no unfinished business to subconsciously subvert his dreams, he remained in that graceful state.

        During the later morning hours, after coffee had been brewed and the newspaper perused, Yanin set about the lengthy but peaceful cleaning process. He had plenty of time to remove all signs of the previous night, as his parents didn't return to night time. Being that his thought process was at its most creative when his physical self was occupied with simple, repetitive actions, he had vast time to view the previous night's events in a new light, especially the closing moments. His mind kept wandering off towards them, debating the significance and meaning of the string snapping. He began to look at it as a blessing in disguise, instead of seeing it as another instance attesting to the veracity of his ideology as supposed he would with more thought into the matter. If the string hadn't broken, how would he proceed with the guitar's newfound capability? Chances are he would feel obligated to pick up where he left off and continue his lessons, even though he knew he wouldn't feel any joy in it during this stage of life. It was the type of activity, lightweight and innocuous, that could only be enjoyed during the more carefree adolescent years. Now it would only be a hinder to his development and maturation. Yet his obstinate set of principles would force him to endure until a unforeseen circumstance set him free. The earlier destruction of the guitar's ability was just able prescience on someone's behalf. In retrospect, the first time the string had broken might also have been a force of positive energy. He had gotten his first job a mere two weeks after that event, which would of probably caused him to abandon his studies anyway, except with more regret. He had gotten a renewed sense of purpose out of the guitar's revival, he didn't need anything else. He picked up the pile of dirt, beer caps and tabs, and various other small objects he had swept, dumped it, and finished his last drops of coffee. He went to pour a new cup and while passing the radio, turned it up to eleven, letting the music carry him away.