I got to the address and realized it was some dumb house. I knew that the people inside would all be young and drunk. I freaked out and decided I needed to get drunk to go in there. I went to a nearby bar instead, relieved I’d brought a book. I’d need something smart at the top of my mind. I’d need something I could remember. I just wanted something I could reach through the haze of my own inhibitions.

I drank until the sentences began to run together but it was the kind of book that seemed best read that way. I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I went outside. I smoked and the cigarette shook in my hand and my stomach was quivering.

I went back in to pee. I lowered my head like the people were looking at me. They weren’t looking at me. I locked the door behind me anyway.

I sat on the toilet and thought about my personality. I thought about how I’ve never been impulsive, not in a real way. Not in a way that felt like a release. I felt some obligation to pretend I was impulsive. I could smell my own piss and my pee smelled like strawberry yogurt.