17.

I'm pretty pleased with myself and it feels fucking great. I hope those were Skittles. I hope this is a sign of things to come and I feel a spring in my step. I decide to head into the trashiest bar I can find on the Ave. I settle for the one that has the most assholes hanging about outside. I step on in and walk straight to the bar and take the first seat on the corner. I don't care what time it is. Even if I hadn't been up for so damn long I still wouldn't care. My mouth tastes like a rainbow and I let that influence my choice. I bark out an order for a screwdriver. I want something citrus-y. I smile when I hear him ask for 2.50. I take a long pull and I feel my smile slip away when I taste mostly watered down O.J. The radio's playing the Eagles's "I can't tell you why." My mom used to play this song all the time and I absolutely hated it and I'm surprised to find myself not annoyed. I actually sort of like it. Hmmm. This drunk asshat in some far too acid washed jeans and a satin baseball jacket is yammering about his job or his wife or his kids or some bullshit. He seems to be roaming about complaining to anyone he sees. And god damn it, he sees me. He starts to stumble over and I take a good look at everything I hope I never become. He orders a jack and coke from the bartender and my brain turns off. And like some Buddhist mantra, I start chanting in my head, "Please don't come talk to me you fucking crazy douche. Please don't come talk to me you fucking crazy douche. Please don't come talk to me you fucking crazy douche".