I’m not gonna lie. The first day was a damn nightmare. I felt woozy and had a headache. Most importantly, I WAS STARVING. I looked at all of Ritual Cleanse’s reviews on Yelp and everyone was just like “OMG, YOU NEVER GO HUNGRY! THE JUICES ARE SO FILLING!” Um, yeah right. Liar, liar, organic cotton pants on fire! If you drink nothing but juice, you’re going to be hungry.
As Shadid was about to meet his end via a seizure of the breathing passages, I was rummaging through various bar couches and lost-and-found bins, hoping someone, somewhere, had found this thing and put it aside.
I walked up a set of stairs and into the doctor’s office that looked more suited to treat broken surfboard leashes than patients. Everything about the décor drew inspiration from the Pacific.
Stop checking your email because you know it will just be your friends asking you if you’re okay, and you don’t want to admit that you really aren’t but know they won’t believe you if you lie and say you are.
Regular sexual intercourse two or three times a week, usually Thursday nights after The Office and on the weekend; Saturday date night dinner at ethnic fusion restaurant whose assimilation of Southeast-Asian or Latin flavors one earnestly abridges with “wow.”
Sometimes, when in situations like these, you find yourself in a conversation where the rules are that you have to keep making up these clever little witticisms to stay in the conversation. It is like a verbal game of ping pong.
The Party Girl still hits the old haunts, but now it’s mostly to reminisce with her bartender friends about old crazy antics instead of to create new mayhem. She used to sleep with the band guy back in the day, and now when she runs into him on the street she is stunned by how old and tired he looks; all gin blossoms and jowl.
Recently realized certain aspects of what he thought was his identity were actually just uncontrollable delusions lacking any concrete behavior as evidence of their truth and significance.