The year is 2018 and I am 20 years old. The news speaks of Donald Trump, late-stage capitalism, and Kim Kardashian’s ass. New York City is alive with parties and protests- both equally as anxious and elated.
The nights and conversations blur together so that I can barely differentiate between moments of irrelevance and moments of importance. A man bites my neck at Up & Down. A glass of champagne smashes on the floor at 1 Oak. Caroline dyes Kirsten’s hair purple in the dorm kitchen sink. I cut my legs shaving on the green tiled bathroom floor. I spend hours watching documentaries on Kurt Cobain, cocaine, and 9/11.
F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best, “Everybody's youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.” And so I put on red lipstick to have it kissed off. I curl my blonde hair to have it fall. I will never be this young, drunk, or beautiful again.