Piss

6th grade: My best friend warned me. 

He said, "I don't understand why he invited you to his birthday party."

It didn't matter to me. I WAS invited. I was going to Brian's birthday sleepover. 

Me? The loner from Lawndale? I was going to go to ASCOT to watch cars race around a track with the most popular kids in the class. I was going to eat cake at night and pancakes in the morning, and hang out all night with the kids I wanted to be like. 

Me. 

I was invited.

And I was going to go. 

And I went.

And later that night, I found out why I was invited. 

I was invited to be pissed on. 

Quite literally.

Held down, and pissed upon.

So… from 6th grade until I graduated, I was not Chris, I was the kid who got pissed on at Brian Grosse's  birthday party.

Ask me about it. I'll tell you what happened. And I'll try and tell you how it felt to feel my warm tears mix with warm piss. 

I'll try and tell you how I lied and told by best friend how much fun I had at the party. (all the while knowing that HE knew… everyone did).

I'll tell you about how I told my brother that I was crying all night because I missed my dad. Which I did, but I also was crying because I was the kid they picked to piss on.  (I don't remember if I ever told my brother about the party. I don't think I did, because he would have fucking killed them).

You should also know, Brian's mom cooked amazing pancakes that morning. I'm fairly sure none appreciated them as much as I did. The salt of the butter played off of the sweetness of the syrup so wonderfully. 

And I still love pancakes.

I love pancakes as much as I hate Brian.

And as much as I hate piss.