Short talk on drinking alone

New York City NY

Description

I sit in the body of a 20-year-old woman but for some reason the narration in my head is that of a 60-year-old man who’s been worn down ten times over. Reincarnation maybe or because I’ve decided to start indulging in whisky instead of red wine and the tropes I’ve learned align. Do I embody this man or has he just infested my brain? “You are not your thoughts, you are just the thinker of them,” I am not my thoughts—but they are also not mine. A sponge wringing itself out of all it has absorbed as I prattle incoherently to whoever happens to be sitting next to me at the end of the bar. They aren’t listening but they look up to meet my eyes every so often to give the impression that they are. Maybe if I give her enough of the attention she desperately craves she will come home with me. Strangers with nothing to offer each other but congruent emptiness. Because drinking alone is unsatisfactory; pleasure without amusement. I have already lost my voice and they thirst to have their ears cut off. There was always an objective.