Girl and City

First-year for me was a year of partying four times a week, drinking way too much vodka, kissing boys I’d just met, coming back to my dorm at 4am and then falling asleep outside my door because I was too drunk to fit the key into the keyhole. And I’d wake up feeling sick and hurting all over and I wouldn’t know what to do except run to the washroom and wait until it passes. And I’d swear to myself that I’d never drink again. Sometimes, by the time I’m done, it’s too late to even bother going to bed (if I actually wanted to make my 8:30 morning class) so I’d just go down to the caf and have a long breakfast with Zee, debriefing each other on the night’s events before dragging ourselves to class.
And then we’d do it all over again.

I didn’t really have a problem with this party-girl that had somehow appeared within me. As far as first-year university goes, this was the norm. But deep down, there was always a small voice saying – this isn’t you. You don’t wear makeup and show too much skin and click around in fuck-me heels. You don’t drink until you can’t see straight and you don’t make out with strangers.

Sometimes, in the middle of kissing some random boy whose name I don’t remember, or never bothered to ask, I’d pull back and look around. What am I doing here? How did I end up here? And who is this guy? He’s probably not going to call tomorrow, or ever. He’s probably not going to remember my name or what I looked like or even the fact that he kissed me. And then I’d push him away without a word, because there’s no tenderness in his kisses and no warmth in his arms.
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