End of the Line

I took in the view of my studio apartment as I sat precariously perched on the back of my couch. Still drunk from the night before, I looked out in disgust, sadness, and bewilderment. Was it Tuesday? Or maybe Wednesday? Gazing at the mountain of laundry and a pool of spilled wine, I picked through the ashtray with my finger trying to find a cigarette butt. Diva, my black chow chow, couldn’t wait any longer and found some newspapers to relieve herself on. I winced as I moved my sore leg. I was still wearing the black opaque tights that I had worn the day before. Dark holes outlined the pink raw flesh on my knees; splotches of dried blood on my clothes held the clues to my battle wounds. I thought everybody ruined their clothes when they went out. My eyes panned the wall and caught sight of the god-awful, cocaine and vodka-inspired painting I’d had done a few nights prior. In a blackout, I had cut a huge chunk of my hair off and plastered it onto the canvas. I’m sure at the time I thought, This is so deep. What the hell was wrong with me?