I'm drinking a miserable excuse for a sparkling wine, a rose frizzante, on top of the Dayquil I just took, on top of the black tea I'm about to chug, on top of the nap I just took, on top of the meager few hours of sleep I got after last night's slammin' party at the bar that I was cleaning up after until 4am, on top of the fucking cold I have that I'm just kind of pretending isn't actually happening, on top of the band that's playing tonight (it's going to be dead, but I need to have a good time)....I need to have a good time. I need to have a good night. I need to figure out what that means.
Right now, it means dancing around to a soul cover of a Doors song (take your pick, it doesn't matter) in my new Ben Sherman skirt and my low-cut shirt showing off the only good thing about being fat (the cleavage, my god, the cleavage), envisioning a great night ahead. Because that's the only way it'll happen. If I lose my voice, if I'm sick a few more days, if I get fired, if everyone who wasn't supposed to dies right then, I'll have these precious few moments of pure delight that no one else has.