Boring texts. Chapped lips. Dirty clothes. Sex on sandpaper. Shitty pick up lines. Unfiltered thoughts. Overdressed thots. The Titanic without a story. A really sad melon.
I take Dry January very seriously. Take my booze; I’ll take every bit of moisture Mother Earth has to offer. Foreplay? Gone. Girl? Gone. Sour and sweet? Gone. December? Still here. It’s the honorary 33rd.
It’s not the end of the year—or my sobriety. Why restart my problems? I’ve mastered them. I can tolerate a glass half empty; it hides the end. Sleep only reminds me, I have to wake up again. I’d rather tirelessly travel through the next day and the next, as they flow into each other like a pair of ice melting into paradise—a place I’d happily drown.
