My birthday just passed, on the heals of a week long speed binge. We slept a bit, so it wasn't as psychotic as that sounds. It never seems psychotic anymore, anyway. It was not a good or a bad birthday, but a birthday none the less. 22 years. 6 years since a birthday passed sober. 6 years ago, when I loved the needle and it loved me, and we loved percocets. At 16, I deified myself and worshipped at my own alter, thinking I was somehow the exception to the rule.
This year, I waited for my boyfriend to return from a job at a baking factory, covered in grease, feeling guilty for "ruining" my birthday. It was okay. I wasn't phased at all. There were 60 more mgs for Sunday, when we would get back from my parents' home. No point being tweaked out in front of the parents, I'd rather be depressed, at least that would be excusable. We'd be fine, eat some good food, and play with the kitten--it'd all be fine.
Today, a week later exactly, doing bumps of cocaine as I work from home, and I realized this is how a birthday should feel--like a good coke high. It won't last long, but it'll feel good and right. That's why I'm writing again. I missed it, and this has got me back thinking about it.
BTW, I graduated college, early, with a 3.45, in case you were curious about why I stopped writing, I was studying.
Later, but sooner than a few years,
- Lucy
No comments:
Post a Comment
All comments are welcome. Please say whatever comes to your mind. I love any feedback, even if it is simply relating this back to your own life or to hip me to new authors/music/etc..
I am all eyes.