Oh, and the night begins with such promise. The people laugh and sing their way through the smalltalk of how was your week and oh it's Friday and doing everything in their power to pretend like they have any. A beer - the cheapest and darkest on tap - and I'll join them, this is what I do, introducing and defining myself by my career. Name? And what do you do? What do I do? Secretly hate all of you for making this the highlight of my week.
And the weekend flies by in a flurry of hangovers and pot smoke and cigarette smoke and watered down cocktails and ATM charges and one more drink and can i gitta cothmo in a tumbler please and cab rides I can't afford and brunches I pretend I can and meeting people and falling in love every few minutes and hating everything every few hours and it's Sunday already? and it's Monday again? And press repeat to hear that one song again and somehow I find a way to get through the week and wonder if this is the thing that defines success and then, oh when you've really hit rock bottom, when you can afford your rent and you've outgrown your lifestyle and you've found love and it's not just your name on the lease and you have someone to fall asleep next to and when you wake up you don't have to worry about remembering his name. When you wake up at 6:30am every weekday morning with ease and you're drunk off two glasses of overpriced wine and you have a routine that, when interrupted by sickness or a death in the family sends you into a complete tailspin that it takes you weeks to get back on track.
That's where I am.