Sometimes I can’t keep track of my own life. There are days that I am completely fascinated by the mess of my world, because I’m all over the place and restless, drunk all the time and going to all these concerts, learning how to use a vape pen in my spare time, discovering new ways of battling wicked hangovers like I’m some genius, filling my loneliness with vibrators, and calculating a successful day by how many times I can get eye-fucked on the street.
I live for these distracting moments. It’s all about trudging through the drudgery and filling every free moment with daydreaming, with more alcohol, and with more chaos that ends up addictive. It’s a time of life. And right now my life is all rose-gold and loud, full of fuck-yeahs and fuck-its, possibility and songs to sing along with.
And then there are the other days—the days where all of that good stuff comes whiplashing back at me, interrupting that stellar, buzzing fix with a silence that burns, with a loneliness that breaks your heart, and leaves you with a million endless questions about life that make you feel like you’ll never find the answers to. The high was just so high, and now the low is so fucking low.
I used to feel so lucky—the nights I’d drink a beer in the shower before going to a concert on a whim, and thinking about all the people who couldn’t do things like this because they had responsibilities, husbands, kids. I’d love life then. I could do anything I wanted. It didn’t matter that it was a random Tuesday. I was alive. And I loved the idea of shaking up “the norm” and writing my own rules. Fuck everybody else. (This is the rose-gold part.)
But then I’d crash. I’d crash and then think to myself, What. The. Fuck. Am. I Doing? I’m living like a kid. How is everyone else so established and yet here I am vaping in bed with my vibrator next to me, empty PBR cans on my desk and unanswered text messages from the guy I like who’s playing so hard to get? Yeah, about all that…
But instead of taking command of my life and making all these bold changes to fix the things that always come back to haunt me, I just keep doing it. I just keep living this way, with these extreme highs and these extreme lows. That’s why I can’t keep track. One minute my life feels like a music video full of tequila shots and disco balls, lipstick and flirting, ankle boots and this-is-so-my-song excitement, and I never want any of it to end. Music, drinks, cigarettes, sex, parties. The city is my playground. Fuck it. I’m living my best life. The time is now. Balls to the walls, baby.
Until the music stops. Until I’ve slammed all the drinks. Until I smoked all the cigarettes. Until the bad sex is over. Until the party ends.
I just wish there was a way that I could believe whole-heartedly in my thrilling and florid independence and know for sure that the color of it all will never change, that it will never slam into silence and into all those endless questions that leave me feeling like I’ll never, ever get my life together.
And then it all starts over again. Up, down, high, low. Whatever. I can’t keep track anymore. But it’s fine. It’ll all be fine. Until it isn’t. Again.