Drink Me

I currently feel like I'm standing in Greenwich, London.
On the border of an axis. A divider. A connection. A compilation of time by straddling.

I'm trying to figure out how you align mourning and a birthday.
3 yrs in and still no success. I can never seem to find an appropriate balance.
Let me explain.

Two hours before the big HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!! OMG XOXO I LOVE YOU SO MUCH BFFL TAKE A SHOT FOR ME<3333
you find yourself mumbling R.I.P.
Bland.

Tasteless.
Alone with your social group. Are you kidding me? Sympathy towards everything else is a joke.

People, this is birth and death here. I mean clearly this situation's gonna be complicated.
It's my own self worth (whatever that may be at this point, because validation 2 months out of college is rare) versus half of my molecular solar system; a.k.a. the memory of a parent.

What I should do after not being able to spend my 21st in the States (in London they don't give a shit as long as you can hack), is go get smashed the entire weekend. "Should" a tricky word.
Will I?
I mean maybe Friday, Saturday, but that involves scheduling and questions...
SOCIETY. TIME MANAGEMENT. BOOKINGS. MONEY.
Wait wait wait. Waiting! To hit pause on Sunday to mourn, and then hop right back on the fucked-up ban wagon.

Elation. Happy days follow a tragic day. Fate, the damn bitch, provided me with two hours to recoup, chill, smoke a fag, maybe hyperventilate one or twice, and then "Heyyyyyyyy girl, guess what?! Go party now cause you're one year older!"
Though, farther away from memory, and Hollywood blockbusters, such as Ghost, become laughable, well because you realize (with age) this shit truly doesn't exist.

This year, sports are taking over, and that's just fine. At least it's olympic season. Fuck, I'll even wear a beret.
Someone has to carry the torch into normality--even if it's a quick turn around.