Monday, March 8, 2010
You don't make out with friends. You just don't do that.
I keep on willingly laying down in the same shallow grave over and over. Sure, my thought pattern was blurry and erratic (and possibly even sporadic as I was swerving in and out of semi-consciousness). Sara had a birthday and we were all drinking JD. Avy was there and she seemed really angry. There were other girls and boys milling about like specks of dust on a map of the abyss.
I didn't think you could fall into a K-hole from just drinking? And I had just found out the day before that I am moving to the NYC at the end of the summer to begin an internship at a magazine. One with lots of pictures of half-naked, anorectic 14-year olds with heroin habits.
Speaking about anorectics ... I made out with an anorectic friend. Her eyes nearly drowned me in black waters, sucked me down and under. Her lips eager, her tongue hungry (no wonder really). But I should know I should know I should know. Now that I am rising from the pits with a throbbing headache.
You don't make out with friends.