5. Sparrow
The next evening, I'm vomitting up elephant ears into the moldy toilet basin of some shitty backstage bathroom in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Begging to a god I don't even believe in, saying God, don't ever let me drink that much again. God, don't ever let me see a funnel cakes again.
The cracked mirror above the sink shakes and jives in time with the music below, it's rattle sounding like so much cheap silverware in an old dishwasher. The image reflecting back is only too accurate; a sallow, dark hair girl, blurry around the edges, vibrating, thrumming. My face, pale and devoid of any color except for smeared eyeliner and black mascara that circle my dark eyes like a raccoon's mask. I look messy, but I think it's in a sexy, disheveled way and not in a I've Spent The Entire Afternoon Losing My Lunch kind of way. I hope.
God, grant me the serenity to accept my lack of dignity.
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