Post by PILOT URI FERGUSON on Dec 9, 2010 23:28:57 GMT -5
PILOT URI FERGUSON
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PUF , TWENTY TWO , NYC CITIZEN , BOGIE
Love.
It isn't real. Seriously. All that mushy gushy crap the media always talks about, the three hundred sixty five letters, eight three one, searching for their soul mate, dying in each other's arms, unable to live without one another...It is all bull shit.
I was born in a regular Manhattan hospital on a cold January morning to a mother who was still a child herself and a father that never existed. I was the to be the only son of the Ferguson Family, the wealthy, German, Upper East Side lot that owned half of all the investment firms in New York City and whose only daughter decided to get knocked up when she ran away to Bora Bora at fifteen. No one ever figured out who my father was - not even my mother. Growing up, her ways never really changed. She remained perpetually between the ages of fifteen and sixteen; always holding lavishing parties, getting drunk, screwing around, not caring much for our reputation. She didn't raise me and the few times I saw her was when my grandparents allowed it.
So where my grandparents made the mistakes with their daughter, they refused to make the mistakes with me. I was to be their golden child but all I really did was follow in mother-dearest's footsteps. She was a great example, you know. A fabulous one. As a toddler, I tended to follow her around, begging for her attention. She would give it to me - shower me with kisses and pick me up, telling me the reason why she named me 'pilot' because she knew I would fly away to millions of exotic places one day. We used to play rocket ship where she'd slowly count down and at the end scream 'blast off' and she'd pick me up quickly and 'fly' me around the room. I don't know how she knew I would want to actually become a pilot one day...She was immature but she wasn't heartless like her own parents.
As a teenager, I had the perfect grades. I went to an important academy for boys in the heart of the Upper East Side, was on the lacrosse team, went to all the brunches and charities to represent the Ferguson's. In the eyes of my grandparents, I would surely never mess up. My mother knew me better, though, and by the time I was thirteen, I'd lost my virginity to some twenty year old Brazilian supermodel. My best friend and I practically owned everything that was attractive and had a vagina. The one vagina that has always off limits was the one I wanted. You know how this story goes: the one you can't have will always be the one that you want. Well, it applied directly to me.
I may have had the perfect grades, may have been the star of the lacrosse team, and may have been the red head women couldn't help but fall for unreasonably but when it came to Angelina, things were different. That was where this 'love' shit came in. She was always just sort of there. After all, she was my best friend's little sister. I had to be screwed up in the noggin to want her, but I did and I made sure I won her over. At first it was just a game. The point was to get in her pants and leave her be-maybe then my little conquistador would stop getting all giddy whenever she was around. Then she had to go be stupid and end up in rehab. Honestly, it pissed me off. I fucked more chicks than usual, went to more parties, did more drugs than I normally did and wound up back at square one-wanting Angelina-fucking-Davidson. And I hadn't even grown the balls to have a meaningful conversation with her yet.
When she came home, that conversation happened. Of course, being me, I don't give two craps about rehab for myself though my grandparents proposed it. My mother, of course, was strictly against it, saying I was old enough to do whatever the fuck I wanted and I obviously took my mother's side. By then she was crazy, though, hyped up on plastic surgery to keep herself looking totally and completely youthful for the rest of her days. But I didn't know it would hurt her so much-my own bad habits and demons. Maybe I just had daddy issues or something that I had to always win women over. When we started dating, though, it was the first time I had ever been faithful and loyal to anyone in such a way. I even threw that despicable 'love' word around at her and meant it. You see how totally insane I was? I was stupid. Totally stupid.
I was a party freak, a womanizer, a man who was cunning and manipulative. I was never meant to be with just one person so I should have seen it coming when she took off one day without nothing else but a stupid note saying it was over. She broke up with me when it should have been the other way around. That was when I realized the L word never existed in the first place. It didn't exist for my mom and it wasn't going to exist for me. Both of us were just not meant to end up with anyone. So when she left, I started sleeping around again. I partied more, I drank more, I dropped out of Columbia University since I already owned one of my family's investment firms, and eventually my bad habits caught up with me.
It was probably the fact my mother passed away while getting a tummy tuck that threw me over the edge and made me snap. It was probably because she had admitted to me, after our up tenth argument on me being against plastic surgery, that she admitted she wanted to look perfect so she could find me the father I never had despite me being twenty one at the time and not really needing a father at that point. It was probably because there would never be anyone else in the Ferguson family that was so similar to myself than my own mother. On my twenty second birthday, I over dosed on God-Knows-What at my birthday party. If Mason hadn't taken me to the hospital, I probably would have died right there in the private lounging area of the Waldorf Astoria with my three dates of the night screaming into my ear and panicking like chickens without heads.
Maybe I thought if she heard about that crazy story of mine, she'd show up but she didn't. I don't know what I expected, even to this day. A happy ending? That sort of crap didn't exist for the Ferguson's. It just never happened. I was a depressed little mess and in a way I still am-I just hide it with loads of Scotch, beautiful women, work, and a good two eight balls of coke every week. An overdose wasn't going to stop me from living my life, nor was a little insignificant bitch who knew exactly how to turn me into nothing but dust.
