That’s it. You’ve worked an entire day, from the moment you got up and had to write those lines down, till you’ve returned home after a visit at the folk’s, and it is Friday night, but your friends have gone on vacation elsewhere. That’s just it, you know.
That’s when you pour that glass of chilled Guinness Draught, desperately combating yourself in the question of how much party you could be able to squeeze out of your neighbours happening to be muslims. That’s just about it.
A record is put on, one of your countless favourites, and you are fully aware of the threat of it setting the mood for the rest of the night, and even though your social consciousness pukes out statistics showing that you’re well below the thin, red line defining "anti-social", you also wish to be left alone and drunk. Really drunk.
During an experiment with chalky, white tablets and Heinecken your body gives up and throws a fit manifested in vomit all over your desktop, and the well-kept picture of a girl you loved when you were fifteen. You clean it up, repressing the hallucinations that begins to crawl in front of your eyeballs; dark cloths of memoryless bliss, persuasive demons and angels in disguise.
That’s it, you may think, and decide to go to bed. Or you search for your roommate’s long saved liquor, redwine from the 1930’s which you swallow with a sour grin. There is no tomorrow, there is no yesturday, nothing is but the release in itself. That’s it.
Your body falls asleep before your consciousness, and you witness your drool run down your used-to-be white pillow before walls become plains where your own, honest laughter fills the soundscape and you’d swear that the heat from the sun on the blue-purple fantasy dream sky is real. You fall asleep.
.. Or you read a book and go out dancing. The choice is yours.