(no subject)
There is this way he gets, holding back 6 glasses of gins and tonics. Belching past the nausea and shooting out words quicker than Suleman's babies. Making me feel like the asshole. Confused and high, sucking in balloon air filled by a whip cream containers. 15 seconds, 15 seconds, "I'll be back to normal." Vacantly examining just how far past freshman year ideals he's gone. I'll drink a bottle of overly alcoholed down diet pepsi and think about what celebrating actually used to feel like. "Here, Here! To Friday. Here, Here! to Saturday. Here, Here! to Wednesday?" How far hes come- here's how far we've come. Past what used to be fun and arriving at an unforgivable routine. Another $40 down and another week feeding myself off Duane Reade food. Fat Tuesday-Famine Tuesday. Remember how far I've come. How much further I can go and how our routines evaporate our spirits, slowely, until we're left with an awful week, month, year- promising ourselves that things will be different- that we're different, but aren't we're the same- always holding back 6 glasses of gins and tonics.