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More than a mere handful of years ago, an assortment of days, hours, minutes and seconds ago, I was brought kicking and screaming into this world, weak, pink digits tearing at the layers of woman innard that coated me, feeble eyes encrusted with wanton liquids -- I was midst stupor, intoxication and revulsion all at once; I was alive! But covered in foetal fluids and in public, a mistake I have not made again to this day. Years passed from then in a blur of feral boyish dreams and roguish whims, ones which I now lament on a frequent basis, regardless I digress. Yes, barley, wheat and numerous oats scented my path, and days in muck encrusted clothing littered it ~ Oh to be young.

School back then wasn’t bad at the time, tormenting teachers with an exponential appetite for classroom banter and general joviality. Starting at the bottom rung grades were good, esteem was low. My most vivid memory of my first years was a girl called Rebecca Tompkins, your typical Irish gal, long frizzy burnt red hair, porcelain skin adorned in a shower of perpetual freckles; I was five she was six, we road on horses made of sticks. I had fallen in love, a personality hidden behind a veil of meek resolution forced upon her by harsh parents and even harsher expectations, with a soft nurturing voice riddled with the weight her dainty shoulders had to bear -- I was in love. Erstwhile, I had taken to a more rebellious mien, pocketing anything and everything that came my way in vague hopes of impressing this fiery-manned beauty. ‘twas not long after I had mastered the craft of petty thievery, sweet stands molested and parent’s friends pockets raped by swift hands, then I found it, the one ring to bind her. My mother’s wedding ring. Quickly snatched from its residence atop her bed side counter one night, I fled into the recesses of the house, pocketing it and acting none-the-wiser. All went well, my ruse complete and into school with it I went, the band vaunted upon my open palm, to be given to Celtic Maiden. It was that day I got married and was divorced, for the first time. Immediately she accepted, diamonds refracting in her small eyes as it fell loosely about her finger, my joy could not be contained. Aged five and with the woman of my dreams, what could go wrong? Later that day I hung from the sycamore tree in my garden, legs snaked beneath bough, my face a pulsating scarlet from the blood that pushed at my cheeks. Suddenly the world reeled and the ground rose menacingly to meet me, my mothers face also red but for an entirely different reason. And so began the break up of Rebecca and I, a tale too painful to utter again, a child torn in two. That was of course until Easter, and the braic,* more so the ring within. Vengeance would be mine.

*Braic -- a festive cake for Halloween containing a cheap, tacky gold-hued ring

From primary school to secondary I flew akin to pallid dart hurtling through the echelons of time, the better part of my memories now lost to the blight they call alcohol. The loss of my virginity is in here somewhere, rapid and dishevelled at the time, a laceration across my soul that shall never fade now. Heh. Poor Abbie, a seventeen girl struggling with seeming paranoia over child birth. Poor me, a fifteen year old kid, who previous to this, had not a care in the bloody world. ~At this point, I’d like to ask, why does the younger generation hate me? To this day, I have never intimately kissed a woman younger than I but have flounced my way through 20-25 year olds galore. Never did get that.~ After the incident with my first real girlfriend and our eventual bitter parting of ways, I drifted for a time, falling in and out of different cliques at school attempting to establish a life beyond a girl I had given everything too; when this Irishman falls, he falls hard. Still I climb out from the well of insecurity I had descended into, women at times some different beings, not to be trusted lest I sign away my life again unknowingly, but I try, it is all I can do. The rest of secondary school past much like the it had started a haze of getting myself into trouble and worming my way out with the silver side of a tongue used once before to escape the pitiless hand of my father. This a remnant of a past I do my best to forget. Betwixt these came the moving of my family from one place to another Galway to Cork, though not a lot of you will understand/care about the difference. My making it to represent my Province in field hockey and soccer. The sudden ability to write -- just over a year ago I used to fail English in school. And the finishing of my school life, a poor end to say the least. Tormented by parents and haunted by the thought of not living up to the expectations they and others held due to the fact I sound intelligent, I floundered, fell and drowned in my own reluctance to try, things ending up dismal as always. Nevertheless I persevere, carry on fighting the lethargic fight, or watching it at least. Taking a year out from college to get some money and perspective, neither of which I have gained thus far. As it stands, folks, my life is up in the air at the moment, and should I not have to take the weight of responsibility ‘pon my shoulders again, gladly would I let it stay that way.

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