I didn’t notice the gash on my finger leaking alcohol and nicotine laden blood until I got home. There are only three dollars left in my pocket. I started with much more than that but spent it all on impulsive beer and cigarettes.

The Parliaments, assembled neatly on my dresser, reminding me that I don’t even smoke. A $15 reminder, because you know, New York. But realistically, I’ll make all bad life choices up in maybe half an hour or so of work tomorrow.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember how ridiculous it is that baby faced 24 year olds fresh out of college get paid a pro-rated $160,000/year in their first substantive job (probably sort of like getting the Internship as your first screen credit) to do essentially nothing.

I walked home from an East Village bar where I was supposed to meet a friend who wanted to meet for dinner and drinks. She didn’t show up, so I sat there alone. But there he was, old, fat, balding. Probably what I’ll be like in twenty years. Buying a round of drinks for two girls who looked like they were still in Phase Bieber. I made eye contact with one of the Beliebers, who shrugged at me with a look that said “get me out of here.” I suppose money does buy everything.


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