Another late night, running outside, amok. The ghost of myself at eighteen years old has been kicking up shit, pissing on trees, egging houses. Back then I knew the only way to feel better was to steal a 40 ounce, crawl through that broken fence by the abandoned shopping mall, drink until I threw up, smash the bottle, rinse, repeat. Back then I knew the only thing that really mattered was how hard I had it. No one really got me. I was seventeen years old, counting down the days til I could be out on my own. Although I felt ugly, I somehow managed to convince myself I owned everything. And you all. Kicking up shit, pissing on trees, egging houses. But then I think I mustered up the self respect to send away that ghost and all those fucked up things that I was saying to myself every single day. I think I got it right. Finally, I think I got it right this time. You see, the problem was I hadn’t hit rock bottom yet. Although, when I wake up and nothing’s happened yet, I have such a hard time being sure that things will get better. When I wake up still drunk from the night before, it’s hard to start over. It’s hard to feel better. Mostly empty mugs of cold coffee stain the table, making rings like Venn Diagrams comparing every day. I find it so hard to distinguish the days. I find it so hard to feel good about me.