There's nothing here but an assortment of beers. Test the tepid waters with the tip of your size six vintage sude peep toe pumps, then flee to the porch for a cigarette and a reality check. You're proficient in nothing, nothing but getting loaded and wasting time. Your life is a circus, a bad joke, an unplanned pregnancy. Pump yourself full of nicotine and cocaine and pretend these things don't happen to you. You're the girl that hates blowing lines, but does it because she loves hating herself more than she hates the white lady. It's not because you're fucked up inside from a ruined childhood. It's not because your creepy uncle played grabass at family reunions when you were thirteen. You didn't even need that much motivation to ease yourself into the wreck of a human being you have become. It's not that you're sad either, or suicidal, or insecure. You love your life, love watching your death from bloodshot eyes, as it approaches ever faster on the wings of hallucinogens and unprotected sex. You love every last soul devouring, black-eyed, cum-splattered moment of it, and death and dishonor are coming for you as surely as anyone. But you spit at them, take another shot, blow another line, waste another semester, fuck another stranger. If death is coming, you say, make it quick, make it worth it.
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