Saturday Night
A short story about acknowledging your escapism, starring Darren.
So this is what my night has resorted to. Drinking a leftover frozen coke I got three hours ago. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s tasty. It hits the spot. It fills that gap that’s there. That gap that surprisingly I thought company would fill, but it ends up that a plastic cup filled with frozen brown tinted sugar fills that gap better than anyone could’ve expected. How the fuck did this happen? How the fuck did this become my Saturday night?
Sometimes you think one specific weekend will contain it all. You think “Oh hell yeah, this shit will be packed full of pills and spills and friends feeling ill. This weekend will be all about me and my new shit. The shit that I deserve, that shit that I’ve accomplished. The shit that makes me who I am.” Then you drop back and realise that you’re a fucking egotistical cunt that smells his own shit every morning because it gets you through the day. Not that there’s anything wrong with this day – you’re doing what you want. But I guess when you’re sitting on the couch on your front deck with nothing but the saddest fucking song you can find on your iPod playing, shit finally gets to you and you think maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe I should have never given up what I had.
No, it wasn’t a family. It wasn’t friends. It wasn’t a girl, it wasn’t a job, it wasn’t anything like that. It was nothing more than nothing in itself. It was just some bullshit that makes you feel good, no matter when or where you feel it. I’m not talking about tranquillity or ecstasy or nirvana or enlightenment. I’m not talking about love or lust or sex or fucking coming. I’m not talking about money or power or fame. I’m not fucking talking about any of this. I’m not trying to be insightful, I’m not trying to turn anyone, and I’m definitely not trying to preach.
I’m just unhappy. And I gave up my ignorance to be this way.
