Eventually, you get tired of nights out.
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Two dudes, one native in a Bruins cap, the other white and scraggly, work the door at the first bar that you realize you think is cool. The sky is incomprehensible. Some bone-thin woman asks for change the way first year teachers talk to children outside of class when they're surprised and happy to see them. Your friends attempt to cough up something, not able to get much more than a few dollars. She never takes it, though.
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At the start of the night, they insist they rarely get this drunk. Both of you tell yourselves that, and what's unspoken between you both is how tantalizing throwing away your prior convictions to acting more responsible than the weekend before when you both decide to do it together. Reckless abandon. It makes you think of Cheetah Chrome - the one-time member of the legendary Cleveland-based protopunk band Rocket from the Tombs - and his time as the heroin buddy of Nico. It makes them make a lot more sense, even if you're just drinking a lot with your friend, as opposed to wasting decades on smack or whatever. As they night goes on, they admit to you they've never written a paper for class without drinking, and that many of their nights outside of those ones are spent drinking by themselves, one or two before bed. They mention this as if they want to get it out of their body as quickly as they can and are more relieved to have done so than being met with the silence they're met with. The words are sore in your memory. You think of wombs, community, pleasure, and the brain.
Everyone is wasted as a means of getting through, and if you're still fucked up, that means I am too.
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My bedroom feels frozen without you. Won't you thaw my icy heart?
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Things can get better, but only if you work at it.
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You're butt ass naked, and you stop tucking in your stomach. You feel kind and calm, and for the first time in weeks, as unafraid of the next few seconds as you are of the next five years. Crying, she fears that she is selling the family farm for some beans in Bangladesh. You feel like you like yourself.
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Tunnels, sounds that cross each other as they're tossed from one end to the other, blinding white light, some black metal conception of death. Nighttime, psychosomatic obsession with freedom, sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. Feeling it in your head. Give yourself up. Being and nothingness. God. The winter. Loneliness. $666 round-trip to Philadelphia and the way the sky looks like, dazed in and out by the window, unable to get comfortable for the 5 hours on the flight.
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