I should hate you.
Whatever your label. Be it your God-given name or a fresh, exotic moniker to hide previous mediocrity.
Success made by Mummy’s contacts and bought by Daddy’s money when you couldn’t make it on your own. Subverting the industry I love, crowding out the talent that can’t afford to shine as bright. A drunken skull that dreams attainable impossibilities, and plays men’s cries as percussion.
I’ve seen you mixed before. Top-shelf cherry schnapps, diet Mountain Dew, vanilla, and sugar processed in a blender and poured over ice in a glass with a cinnamon rim. A pussy that tastes of Pepsi-Cola. A scarlet harlot. Drank by girls who aspire, and fawn, and wilt when they fly too close to the strip lighting.
My friend orders me a glass. I take an obliging mouthful, but swallow surprised. I taste an enduring self-awareness – the sugar vitamin pop is bitter and dark, and possesses a complexity that the fawns can’t possibly appreciate. The poison’s laced with self-deprication and masochism, raw edges. Each taste steeped in New York melancholy, each sip like a pistol barrel to the palate.
An hour and a half later, I’m drunk.
I’m in paradise.
I’m going to feel ever so guilty in the morning.