This is the vivid experience.
We’re having fun until we aren’t.
A girl I’m kind of into and myself.
At a bar I’ve been going to since I was 20.
It’s cheap, dark, and loud.
I tell the girls we meet that night whatever happens T can’t come home with me. We’re not like that anymore.
Tomorrow the girls will text me “are you alright? You were pretty out of it last night.”
I’ll also wake up with two tampons in me, naked, the room spinning and T draped across the bed.
I remember the tequila, the beers (cider for me), the fun. Was it?
I always drank and had the impression of fun the next day, but like using a stencil, it never quite felt like the real thing.
My impression was I drank the wrong things.
All day I was a mess at work.
Puke on my clogs.
Hands gripped onto the pen.
Eyes focused on a horizon somewhere not here.
That it was bad.
Or I don’t.
Because then it happened again and again and again.
Drinking gave me a super power, no cape but a bar seat and a heart full of stories.
The sun rises this morning as I type these words. I didn’t sleep. Adrenaline. But also, relief.
The room doesn’t spin.
I’m in clean pajamas.
I’m bleeding, but there’s nothing inside of me.
In case anyone thinks drinking is glamorous.