But he went with the flow, solely to please his mother because, to him, she was him, and he was her.
But after all of the socializing, he came home to sleep. The night before was tiresome- both physically and not. He drank a bit, and danced a bit, but he was no dancing machine anymore.
"I have become a dull joe," he told a friend.
"No you haven't," she replied, "you're pretty dynamic."
Those words had never been said to him by anyone. And this person was someone he cared about. There in the presence of the goddess of darkness and booze, he was dynamic.
[• (of a person) positive in attitude and full of energy and new ideas : she's dynamic and determined.]
He thought those to be the kindest words. The rest of the night was filled with proper social chit chat. You know- music, careers, hearing disorders, and life choices. He was sitting alone on a love sofa when a close friend sat next to him. The friend began talking about the "younger days," (as if they were much older).
"I know you enjoy different things now," the friend said, "but you can't forget your roots."
He knew that his friend had a few too many beers, but he listened closely because he believed that the inebriated told the truth. He knew he enjoyed different things, and that the atmosphere he was currently in was not his ideal. For that same reason, that year he didn't throw a party for himself. He didn't feel like doing what he did, and acting like he use to.
If he would have acted like before he would of found himself feeling the way he use to- jealous. He learned to hate jealousy, but sometimes he couldn't help it. Booze made him jealous. Booze belittled him; he felt ignored, and emotionally abused. He dared never to judge his friends, but, for now, he knew it was no longer his lifestyle of choice.
