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 I remind myself how high-functioning I am. I went to an industry friends mansion party in the Palisades the night before. I remember eating cheetos in the hot tub and doing coke in the revamped studio in his guest house. Somebody yelled at me for petting her dog while holding a highball glass of cheap whiskey. "He could drink it!" she yanked him back on his collar. "You brought your dog to a fucking mansion party. People are going to want to pet him," I spat. The dog looked scared either way. Too many people, too much noise. I understood him completely. "Sorry buddy," I told him. I remember afterwards passing around a bag of Cheetos with a couple girls who were famous on OnlyStans, a website for amatuer porn artists. They wore stringy triangle bikinis and had long, claw like acrylics and they mostly ignored me, which I was completely okay with. Someone gave me a couple "microdose" pills of powdered cubensis mushrooms. I swallowed them dry. I wan...

   I wish I had somewhere to go. I want to text her and invite her back to my place but under the condition that we won't make out unless I get drunk enough, that there will be absolutely no emotional connection at all unless I need someone to cradle me like a baby while I cry. Somehow, I don't think she'll be interested. I text the Armenian manager of the liquor store near my house. He gave me his number because it's a stretch for me to get there before two when closing the bar on weekends. It's 2:46 but somehow  he's still there  - he let's me buy a twelve of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a shooter of whiskey. "You goin' to a party tonight?" He asks. Sometimes, when I'm in a better mood, I brag to him about the shindigs I go to. "Just chillin'" I say. I don't really care. He tells me to be careful and I wonder what he means. Should I strap on elbow and wrist pads? Get a flu shot? Buy condoms? None of the options that flit throug...

  "You're in my seat," I say to a man in a grey Lockheed Martin t-shirt. He holds my gaze but doesn't say anything. "30B?" I offer, hoping this'll inspire him to interact with me. It's my third flight of the day and it's already four hours late. I'm exhausted and covered in a layer of grime from three different airports. My bangs are sticking to the sweat on my forehead. I can tell this man has not been charmed by me. He's not even willing to remedy the situation. He looks annoyed. "I'm not -" He starts. His wife touches his arm. "Eric," She says. Then she pulls out their boarding passes and shows me that they are, indeed, in the right place and it's me that's being an asshole. "Oh," I say. I pull out my boarding pass. 29B. "Fuck."   It's such a dumb mistake that I sidle into the seat without looking at the woman next to me. She is giggling nonetheless. My head jerks to throw a look ...