The past thirty days have been all intersecting worlds, spacing out, losing my center, loving it, living for it, trying to “do it all” and inevitably failing (/succeeding?) when my personality morphs into its most confusing form: drunk old man with a terrible habit of pacing.
On Wednesday, I caught up on sleep: thirteen hours of dream-filled bullshit, my empty apartment littered with wine glasses drunk by people from my pueblo, my clothes on the floor, hanging from door-handles, sleeves dipped into half-drunk jars of water.
In the morning, I got a message from my roommate.
“How do you feel? Better?”
“I feel like Lana del Rey.”
I’m always behind on pop culture. If you see some girl on the subway looking equal parts wasted and overly-empowered, it’s me listening to Lust for Life for the first time.
What do you do when your lust for life brings you dangerously close to psychosis, Lana?