Mornings like these I feel the need to turn to old loves, and this morning, in the dreadful state that I am in, I turn to some easy listening which comes in the form of David Gray. Now this will soothe a battered and remorseful soul such as mine.
We arrived at the Red Room last night. Again, it’s one of those times that you wonder how it is that you could have been so delayed and how it came to be that you just didn’t ever go before that night? We got ourselves a couch and the tequila began to flow. I hate tequila. The stuff is vile and of the devil. I will never touch it again.
Flip. A few hours ago I was so philosophical, I was a poet, I was a writer and the thoughts, the words and the pretty ideas came thick and fast. This morning, I have nothing. All I have are smudged eyes, a tremble and a solid, sordid sinking feeling in the hollow of my stomach. Questions now replace the lines of strewn together words which filled my head last night. How did it go so quickly? One moment I was happily if not somewhat slowly drinking my beer, the next I was been hurried along and escorted out to the car. I still wanted to dance, take some cheesy photographs, say hello to Candaces friends at the bar. Did I talk a hole through peoples heads the whole night? If yes, what the hell did I talk about and do I need to do some serious apologizing to a few very weary people?
I need a reformation. Why does Charles* come out with us? Why does a boy who is good and pure and moral tolerate such a savage as myself? Is his love for Noleen such as that he would stand nights out with me as well? I want to be good and pure too. But how do I get back to my 16 year old self, and while I think of it, was I that good at 16 even? I’m beginning to doubt it.