I feel quite pathetic right now. I am 27, as I seem to be mentioning a lot recently, and I am finding it hard to pluck up the motivation to go out tonight, solely because I went out last night. This is not the me I know and hate. This is a more hateful me to hate, as if he can’t even drag his sorry carcass outside to put alcohol in his face and dance to New Found Glory while everyone stares at him for daring to like something he’s not supposed to.
Then it’s decided – I am wearing my New Found Glory shirt this eve. Take that, cool kids! Pop punk’s not dead.
Anyway, back in t’day I – along with my partner in debauchery, Benjamin Judas Mozzaberg – would be seen out on the town regularly. Not one night a week, or two, three, the other numbers between. It was minimum six, usually seven. This is not boasting, this is acknowledgement of a few things: one, Preston was shit so we had to go and get pissed to have any fun at all. Two, we were stupid. Three, I used to be able to cope.
Seems I cannot cope anymore. Old. Past it. No point. May as well just end it all now. Either that or just get dressed quite quickly and go out.
Yeah, what’s one more night going to hurt?