Woke up, around 11am. Put a slice of cheddar cheese on top of last night’s 7-Eleven pizza and warmed it up in the oven. Breakfast, lunch and hangover food, combined. Problem solved. “Sunday’s already looking great,” I thought. A least, way better than last Sunday, when I broke my 7 month standing record of not puking. Among the other stupid things I did during the unholy hours of the night preceding that shitty moment.
I wasn’t very hungover this time, but wasn’t feeling great either. The leftover emotional pain from last night was still there, lingering inside. The hunt puts me off. Makes me question myself, as a man, as a part of this fucking hedonistic society. The whole club scene, so indecent, so shallow. And me, there in the middle of everything, trying to get some “action”, but not willing to get into the “action.” And the fucking big questions, shouting from within me the absurdity of the moment. “Is this what you really want?” Fuck. I just can’t. Can’t cope with that shit. Too meaningless. Too empty. Techno music in the background, banging in my ears. Drunk people, sweating and doing their mating dance around me. Girls, staring from a distance, promising but never delivering. It sickens me.
The sun was up, as I ate a 7-Eleven pizza at 4am, sitting on my couch. Home alone. My eyes were still wet with tears from the sad bike ride, back from the club. “I will save one pizza slice for the morning,” I thought. Macaulay Culkin wouldn’t have thought of that, I’m sure. Macaulay Culkin, you know? From Home Alone, the movie? Yeah, that movie that isn’t as fucked up as my life.