It’s been a drag out fuck shout ball slap of a night. I look like shit. I’m doing work I should be proud about. I look like some fucked up version of myself. If I’m burning myself out I may as well be a tweaker.
About a week ago, Alex Favacho dragged me around by my legs in the house I got fucked up in all the time. I was a bum. I was a hostess at a Mexican restaurant. I got drunk all the time. I slept with random strangers. I’d wake up and be just fine. I got a legitimate job and got fired.
About a week ago, Alex Favacho dragged me around by my legs as he had done a billion other times. He’d always trip me or judo maneuver me onto the ground. This time instead of laughing it off my back hurt. A dull ache has persisted in my tailbone. Here I am. Glued. Glued to a computer screen. Writing this is a little break from little sleep. I’m in graduate school. I work 20 hrs a week in a coveted position, but I can’t help but feel this is all sorts of wrong.
Alex Favacho could never hurt my back. The good times could never end. I want to push edges and expand limits of what’s possible. There’s no writhing on the floor in a drunken sweat. No dancing. No mornings full of lavish breakfasts and laughter. The body is a cruel bitch.