you wake up. and you wake up. and you wake up. and this time it’s been twelve hours on ambien, thank the fucking lord for ambien, and you’re pretty sure it’s unattractive because you’ve drooled on your pillow and your hair badly needs to be brushed and your penthouse is empty, empty, empty. you’re seventeen, jess has moved out for... what? the month? the year? who the fuck knows. you don’t have a single goddamn clue but she’ll come back, and the more you think about it, the sadder you get, so you stop thinking about it, gulp down a few ativan, and look at your arm.
you wonder who your other half is. you think it’s some handsome fucking pile of shit on a magazine cover holding some kind of expensive guitar raffled away to teenage girls screaming in droves. he’s probably beautiful or something, some stupid handsome prince, and you know that’s what’s waiting for you at the end of the line. but do you really give a fuck? considering it’s never going to happen. ever.
nobody wants to be with you, you flighty fucking junkie. even your best friend tried to pawn you off on your monster of a mother. after protecting you from her. there’s no such thing as better.
you get one shot, though, don’t you? you do. so you grab the dark yellow gel-pen and you stretch your arm in front of you for a long, lean, full-bodied kind of a stretch. (it’s so lazy, cat-like, it makes enough of a sound you wonder who you’re even doing it for with no one here.)
if u have a hard test tday i bet ur gonna do awesome.
you flick the pen away. where, you might ask? you don’t fucking know.
