testing testing 123

I haven’t eaten in the last two days, and I’m not hungry. Actually that’s not true, I had a mango after eight years. Juice dripped over the pajamas I haven’t gotten out of the last two days. Now work beckons and the luxury of sloth is over.

I looked and felt like death and told them I’m not coming, but then was passing by after groceries and thought what the hell why not, got a drop off to the resteraunt. I was in my pajama’s and a shirt so old its torn and see through, and my hair was all poofy because I didn’t blow dry it, but I didn’t care. It turned out it wasn’t the four of us, there were five gloriously dressed aquanitances crashing my personal time with my friends. To make things worse, an old flame who still hasn’t forgiven my rejection in the last ten years (seriously) turned up, and then spent the night telling stories of how many times I was mean to him, and then kept asking why I did that to him. Then as if the evening wasn’t down the toilet as far as my social anxiety disorder goes, he then brought up The Party.

The party of so many lasts, the last time I touched a drink, the last time I had fun, the last time I dressed up and felt so bloody good about myself people said I glowed. The last night I spent with the Drunken Bastard by my side. The last night I spent stopping him from picking fights, the last night I spent listening to him hurl abuses at the guys who talked to me, the last night I spent with an illiterate, stupid, uncouth, mannerless imbecile who abused humanity by existing.

I’m not going out anymore. My cell is on silent, and even though my hair is now ironed straight I’m still in my second pair of pajamas. I’ll live out whatever charade is required of me, with as little grace as possible. Fuck it all.