7.30.2006

Pause.

Every weekend, I dress up as a version of myself. I douse myself in glitter and do shots of Cuervo and shake my ass up and down a narrow aisle, delivering burgers and escargot to drunk people. I flirt with people whose names I never remember and fight with strangers I hope to never see again.

In the morning, I sit around with friends and drink tall glasses of vodka and bitch about the rest of the world. I fold myself into a cab and thumb through a pile of cash, wondering when it will ever be enough.

For six years, I have been a small player in the big game of late night Manhattan, and today, I realized, that someday, my role will be retired. My contract will not be renewed. And as much as this life that I lead breaks my heart and drives me crazy, I do not wish for the ride to stop too soon. I feel as though I can still squeeze a few more drops of the fantastic elixir and quench my thirst for more.

Someone is parked out in the street below my window. They have their car doors open and Thelonious Monk is pouring out of their speakers in heady throbs. The music will be gone by the time I leave for work. The music always stops. But the melancholy lingers. The longing doesn't end, even when the heart is fooled into satisfaction.

"Things in New York City sparkle a lot longer than you'd expect before they burn out."