A night in Montenegro, but not really

It was a night like any other, and so it starts. We cross the street, all of us with our hands deep in our jacket pockets (and some in back pockets of old denims) and we skip run across the midnight street. Wild, free, and young like privileged Kerouacians. The bar straight ahead looks deserted or maybe we just kind of hope it’ll be?

This is not what I want the rest of my life to be–empty. I’ve fought hard to overcome adolescence. I’m so responsible. I’m like, so aware.

I’m like so unsure of what the hell I’m doing sometimes.

Of course we grab the booth deep in the bar. The one with the slightly torn leather seats that are vintage chic, glamorous, but still a bit depressing. I’m imagining some drunken schmuck sprawled out on it the night before, wasted out of his mind, picking out the girls in the bar he wanted to slobber all over. Anyway, I’m sitting on his slobber!

My friend grabs me a cold, wet beer. It’s got some wet, disgusting napkin stuck to it. I didn’t want the extra calories so I asked something extra light, so light that my little old allergic self can have the whole bottle sans slurring speech and tabletop dancing. Like I’d ever be that reckless. Ok, fine, maybe just once.

We sit around, blah blah blah, and we talk about the worse things. Like politics, rising gas prices, shopping, and I’ve been known to apologize for slurring (even though I hardly ever do, remember?) and I’m saying “sorry” repeatedly.

Am I really sorry about slurring? Or stepping on toes? Or pretending like I’m involved in the dialogue? Or am I apologizing for letting myself spiral into this compulsive apologizer.

Or am I just worried that when I wake up tomorrow, I’m going to feel like absolute shit? Sorry, mom.