It’s Saturday night

and you want to go out.

Again.

And, yeah, I guess it’s been a long week

so I suppose I’ll tag along.

The night is broken into fragments

and

maybe I shouldn’t drink so much next time

1) Before we even start you tell me your goal is to get “as shitty as Christina Ricci,” whatever the hell that means—

2) You were only two drinks in when you pulled out your phone to text your ex—

3) Giggle mode activated. You are now an open cave, the same sweet syllable skipping out of your mouth like an echo—

4) You’re really slurring your words now, skip, skip, skip like a record player, it takes sober concentration to understand what you’re saying, I don’t think you’re aware of the messages you’re sending —

5) You looked me square in the eye, like a cowboy down his barrel, and told me that Breaking Bad sucks. I’ll never forgive you for this one—

6) You made a remark about how, quite conveniently, whenever you get drunk you feel like —feel l i k e, feel l i k e e e—

7) I’ve been in seven of your Snapchats already, please, GOD, stop—

8) If you really have to puke stop talking to me and get to the damn bathroom—too late—

9) The ride home is cold and wet, for the rain did not spare us despite our predicament—

10) You don’t even remember any of this, do you?

Take it easy.

And take this next weekend off.

A break from the crazy would be good for us.