((dis))onance // rave!blitz

Drinking. Besides fucking, it's the only thing you consider yourself good at. 'Zelle says you've got problems. Says you're fucked in the head, but why be fucked in the head when there are many more marvelous places to be fucked?

You straighten the scarf wrapped around your neck you wish it were a noose instead and you could be brave enough to say goodbye to kiss this word goodbye like you've kissed so many of its contributors before reaching for the drink. You've heard only takes two inches of water to drown a person but that can't be true when it takes only that much of the tequila bottle to get you feeling buzzed. 

You've started on the third inch of the bottle, your ample ass pressed to the faux-leather bar stool and your forearms resting on the gleaming wood.

Maybe it would be best you didn't finish the bottle. Maybe it would be best you weren't heaving your heart soul love life insides into the toilet bowl for the rest of the morning. After all, work is at 7. Can't miss that.

You turn to the girl next to you-- her hair is a color you'd never seen in hair, although you'd imagined it possible-- and brush her arm. 

"You wanna help me finish this bottle? I bought the whole damn thing and have work in the morning."

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