Saturday Night

I never wanted the night to end, those gloriously liquid LA nights. When the sun rose I'd still be there, clutching a bottle of Veuve, staring into the hills, ignoring supine bodies petrified with cocaine stirring restlessly in nightmares I was unwilling to have. The night didn't end for me, it never fucking ended. Now I want the night to end. I hate the fucking night. It's full of ghosts and dreams, whispers and taunts, and when I wake up it's to an empty bed and feelings so acute that being awake is like a permanent scream.

I saw someone from New York in an AA meeting today. I stared at him a long time and then I went over to say hi. He didn't recognize me without the fake blond hair. I guess he only knew Mimi, come to think of it. Last time I saw him was Billy Marks circa 2005, and here we were, sitting together in a fucking AA meeting in Venice Beach, California: two burnt out writers, ass-fucked by life, sadly, confusedly sifting through memories of times when we didn't give a shit, because now we did, and it hurt pretty bad.

I realized the other day that I spent thirty years waiting for life to start, without ever fucking realizing it had.

That kind of sucked.