Cut to me at 23, watching Mickey pack up his stuff and leave me. Listen to him tell me I’m drinking too much. I’m not drinking too much. I’m not drinking enough. I haven’t slept in 3 three days. I just need to relax. And I have a job. Addicts don’t have jobs. My dad never had a job.
I wrote a poem once and it got published. My mom bought the book. It was about a little girl who gets hit in the face and her dad buys her shoes to make up for it. I used to want to be a writer.
Cut to me showing up at a party a friend of a friend is having, because the apartment is so empty and I have nothing better to do. Watch me drink beer after beer after beer, I don’t even like beer. I’m still not having fun. “Ever tried this?” asks some kid with dreadlocks and acne. He puts down a tray of powder, and cuts lines with his license. Twenty year old me sees her father laying in a pool of vomit, a needle still sticking in his arm, but twenty – three year old me is so bored, so lonely, so willing to try anything new.