last night found me finally curling up on the couch at 5:00am, alarm set for 7:29. It was 5:00am when it all finally caught up to me, the grilled onions and the graham crackers, Coors Light and tap water, Patrick's penis and Patrick's bare ass. I won't say I was trashed, but somehow everything got thrown down into a montage of pushups, curly fries and my laughing wildly and out of control with Stacy on the curb, in the kitchen, at the pool table...
I have no idea how many games of Beer Pong we lost last night.
I have no idea who paid for those curly fries, but i definitely ran down the street with a box to myself and ate them all.
I have no idea how many times Brittany tried not to look over at Pat's "wonger" but did anyways.
I have no idea how I can still justify doing this every night; drunk and screaming, building relationships based on shitty intoxication, and we'll relive the moments until we find the next 30 rack and we'll never really talk to eachother beyond anything superficial, shouting over Kanye West in someone's backyard, beer and rum and coke spilled everywhere, a ruin of alcohol American youth wastedness; the most promising, most privileged kids doing and thinking nothing until the room won't stop spinning. We're a fucking waste and yet I know I won't stop drinking; I have no idea how I got trapped this way.
Maybe I don't really believe that, maybe I'm taking everything a little too seriously.
Maybe I should go to bed.
Ding Dong Aitor.
1 comment:
"I have no idea how many times Brittany tried not to look over at Pat's "wonger" but did anyways."
hah hah.
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