I pop a Lexapro. Swallow. It makes my head swim & kills every boner I could have had, but I guess it’s better than the alternative, & I guess I’m going out.
I really am trying to get in the mood. Parties can be fun. Occasionally there’s something endearing & communal about paying $3 for that bright red jungle juice, too many bodies grinding together in a tiny concrete basement, each of us looking for someone to bring a flush to our faces & to lock lips or more.
Sometimes parties are just lonesome & loud & you leave early feeling like the fatty part of meat that no one wants to ingest.
My cat has sat down in our chair, just big enough for the two of us to sit next to one another.
When I go, he’ll feel like that unwanted meat but won’t have the words to say so. I know my scent will linger & he’ll meow at the specter of his human friend.
I’m somber. Love dulls the sad, not the antidepressant or the Everclear & Kool-Aid. But I’m going out anyway because I’m lonely, & now my cat will be too.
I feel selfish.