2014-11-04 / 8:30 p.m.

I climb into my car at eight thirty, hit the ignition, reverse out the drive and speed blindly into a week filled with hangovers and no regrets. I get drunk on Wednesdays. I get drunk on Saturdays. I forget how to eat on the days in between. I'm holding a business together - a real fucking business - I'm responsible for the hiring and firing of other people. As if I deserve to have a say. I've gotten accustomed to drinking a half bottle of vodka. I split it right down the middle and we say "go" until it's gone. Green light, red light. Camera flashes in the cubicle. I've been going home with far too many men. Last time I woke up on an island in the middle of nowhere, with no way back to the mainland, but he brought me back for breakfast and told me to text him later on. Of course he didn't get back to me, that's just the way it goes. I found a photo from 4:35am of a man smoking a cigarette who looks just like Aaron Paul. People laugh at the way I speak like the others who live here, as though I'd have somehow grown up and developed a different accent. "I do be cold in the evenings". Deal with it. I get stressed and I get lonely and I worry and feel uneasy but I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I feel pretty good. I'm not sure I've ever admitted that before.