(Shot number one. Down.)

Tonight isn’t really unlike any other.

It contains the things that I seem to gravitate toward the most. My floral print loveseat, my cat, my laptop, my phone. Jack sits where he always does, on the table next to the Diet Coke and the Italian coasters. I gave up on my whiskey hiatus. I went to the liquor store to look around. But I do the same thing every time. I start at whiskey. I rule out tequila and cocktails. I go to vodka. I go to beer. I go to wine. I return to whiskey. I always leave with Jack.

He dates girls. I date my source of courage.

I make it sound worse than it is. At least I get to stay home in sweatpants and creasing makeup while I put on “The Division Bell” and ignore the world outside. Nobody to impress. No front to put on. Jack doesn’t judge. He doesn’t have the right.

(Shot number two. Down.)

I always appreciate David Gilmour’s songwriting, but it increases ten fold when I’ve been feeding my favorite vice. “High Hopes” is the perfect song. No one can convince me otherwise. It’s nostalgic, it’s sad, but it’s hopeful. If even I can have an emotional response to it, then it must be genius.

Hello piano.

Bells from Fat Old Sun.

The perfect bassline.

It’s on repeat while I browse tumblr. My loneliness isn’t acting up tonight.

(Shot number three. Down.)