the lost weekend

every year has a lost weekend. it comes in like a rush of adrenaline and leaves you in a daze when it's gone. gone until the next time. last year it was the trip from new york to boston to cape cod. 3 days with 4 hours sleep, drunk driving, a trip to the hospital, large ammounts of opiate drugs, a night of puking, and the worst bus ride of my life back to NY with a dislocated shoulder. the year before it was the world cup weekend where we carefully dismantled everything that held us together as people. we ended up on a beach with 5 thousand people, 20 foot bonfires, sandy sheets, laundry basket full of alcohol, and the best friends anyone could ask for. it's friday morning in new york. it's raining outside and the past two weeks have been a blur, countless birthday's, parties, and friends in from out of town. I don't know what to do with myself and i'm not really ready to figure out everything that happened. i was sitting on a rooftop in brooklyn last night overlooking manhattan thinking to myself "what the fuck"