n'est pas

Afterhouse. The tip of my toungue was raw from playing with the dental work behind my teeth. Eventually, I'm thinking, it will either become a giant callous or rub off in a bloody mess. My friend was discussing corporate interest in her impending public bus trip spanning the length of the United Kingdom, from northernmost Scotland moving south. Her eyes were wide and mine were drifting due to a recent covisit to the bathroom, my sinuses were beginning to strike out against my brain and complete lack of common sense. I would need kleenex soon.
I heard a dull buzz from the kitchen. Someone had broken out the juicer and was attempting to puree everything resembling fruit.
"Vodka smoothie."
"Put some wheatgrass in there. It's really good for you."
Might as well throw some cigarettes in there for all the good it will do. Even the idea of being publicly sarcastic seemed unappealing. There were so many people in the room that I had no interest in communicating with, especially the sudden influx of giggling drunk girls. I looked downright sullen and exceptionally plain next to this barrage. Mister recent fling seemed to have no interest in speaking to me, though I really didn't care. And by "really didn't care" I mean "was making me physically ill." It's one of the more attractive aspects of only wanting what you can't have, wasting energy on the wasted, picking at the sore until it bleeds.
More so than the cigarette smoke or the disgusting tonic concoctions. He's only being an asshole because I allow it, and so I went to my car and vomited into the street. Lit a cigarette and drove home.
Today has been wonderful. My tounge is still raw.