It was one of those endless years where I kept fucking everything up. I was 25 and working at the local mall service desk for 7 bucks an hour. I was going through a phase, a really lame phase. I would get super wasted on the weekends and ask out the semi-cute females I slightly knew from my place of work. On Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons I would drunkenly stumble into them at the local and always miserable dive bars. Upon arriving at work the following Monday morning, still ridiculously intoxicated, I would slur out a half assed hello and tell them I would call in a few days. Nothing beats starting off the week with a bad case of the shakes while having to stand all day.
As the week rolled on, I would dry out, never call, and pretend I had never talked to them. I would get insecure and avoid eye contact. This self deprecating cycle had no rhyme or reason. One day, king of the nighttime world, the next, a total piece of aimless shit . Spring time was coming and my confidence was in seriously bad shape. Things had changed for me since I turned 21. It felt like I had used up all the vacuous fun and the joke was on me. Anger and sadness would come and go, but most of all I was bored.
Hyperactivity and boredom make for a nasty combination. I missed having brand new experiences. I missed being a slimy punk rock underdog with my slimy punk rock friends. I missed having a steady girlfriend with a steady supply of uncut cocaine. Two years earlier, back when we were together, we abruptly decided to start a casual habit because that's what successful up and comers do. Our weekends of ultra confident white noise eventually turned into weeknight binges filled with early twentysomething nosebleeds and oversexed friendships. I thought if I could restart my punk rock band, with its brief second of cult popularity, I could get my mojo back in orbit or some shit like that. I was wrong but not entirely...
(to be continued)
