He offered me a cigarette and a bottle to fix my broken head. You look fucking miserable, he told me. And I was. How did I end up here? A party full of future startup bros and punk kids in torn jean jackets co-existing because this is college and this is what happens when someone posts on Facebook there’s a party with at least one keg and unlimited chill vibes. I take the cigarette, even though I don’t smoke, and deny the pills because drugs scare me. We talk about The Libertines and movies and he tells me Bret Easton Ellis is his favorite author. You shouldn’t say things like that out loud, I tease, before escaping to the front lawn. He asks for my number, writes it on the back of his hand, and promises to call me the next day after class.
Along our bodies we…
View original post 1,335 more words