alcohol makes people ugly. their faces tauten and slacken in unexpected places and their hair falls apart over glassy eyes and fumbling lips.
you fall asleep in someone else's boxers but not sexually because people don't like you that way anymore and that's okay because he's engaged anyway and your heart exists in a thousand golden pieces in the possession of people who don't know what to do with them.
you laugh at devastating secrets, you are nicknamed forever because you're so hilarious and cute and fun, you wake up with blue permanent marker spirals on your face transferred from your inner forearm all night while you dreamed about woodticks and broken teeth.
you're Irish, you tell them, your great-great-great-great-great-infinitely-great-grandmother was Grace O'Malley and it's pirate blood making you such an interesting badass but you know it's just by contrast that you're cool, that they with their Real Jobs and khakis and bad taste in music consider you to be the delightfully eccentric friend-slash-sidekick who uses big words they don't understand but nonetheless find fascinating.
they say, Ted would love you, he's an English major too and hates Bush and is moving to New York to find a publisher and everything he writes about is from a Kevin Smith movie isn'tthatcool.
and you spin around and taste mead and notice that when normal people are drunk they are just like you when you're sober, and when you're drunk you're just like your sober self but louder.
there are people weighing on your brain who've been there since before you knew you cared and one more person is the last thing you need, so screw Ted and his get-up-and-go and his lame aspirations and the crappy crappy derivative crap he is probably writing tonight while drinking black coffee and smoking clove cigarettes the idiot the fucking fuck.
wake up splay-legged in your new friend's boxers, your old best friend's fianc's boxers but it doesn't mean anything because meaning has been annihilated tonight, because all you can see from the porch are trees and trees and trees and there's someone out in the world with a big blue sky inside of him that is polluted this year because of you. brain is hanging upside down and pepper sprayed orange and battered against the wall and absolutely fucking annihilated because you are stupid and loved and beautiful according to all the exact wrong people.
I don't think I'm going to do that again.
you fall asleep in someone else's boxers but not sexually because people don't like you that way anymore and that's okay because he's engaged anyway and your heart exists in a thousand golden pieces in the possession of people who don't know what to do with them.
you laugh at devastating secrets, you are nicknamed forever because you're so hilarious and cute and fun, you wake up with blue permanent marker spirals on your face transferred from your inner forearm all night while you dreamed about woodticks and broken teeth.
you're Irish, you tell them, your great-great-great-great-great-infinitely-great-grandmother was Grace O'Malley and it's pirate blood making you such an interesting badass but you know it's just by contrast that you're cool, that they with their Real Jobs and khakis and bad taste in music consider you to be the delightfully eccentric friend-slash-sidekick who uses big words they don't understand but nonetheless find fascinating.
they say, Ted would love you, he's an English major too and hates Bush and is moving to New York to find a publisher and everything he writes about is from a Kevin Smith movie isn'tthatcool.
and you spin around and taste mead and notice that when normal people are drunk they are just like you when you're sober, and when you're drunk you're just like your sober self but louder.
there are people weighing on your brain who've been there since before you knew you cared and one more person is the last thing you need, so screw Ted and his get-up-and-go and his lame aspirations and the crappy crappy derivative crap he is probably writing tonight while drinking black coffee and smoking clove cigarettes the idiot the fucking fuck.
wake up splay-legged in your new friend's boxers, your old best friend's fianc's boxers but it doesn't mean anything because meaning has been annihilated tonight, because all you can see from the porch are trees and trees and trees and there's someone out in the world with a big blue sky inside of him that is polluted this year because of you. brain is hanging upside down and pepper sprayed orange and battered against the wall and absolutely fucking annihilated because you are stupid and loved and beautiful according to all the exact wrong people.
I don't think I'm going to do that again.
VIEW 21 of 21 COMMENTS
"delightfully eccentric friend-slash-sidekick"? You're way too cool to be relegated to sidekick.