writer burnout

When I drank, I wanted to consume the whole world—bring all the light and sound and voice and touch into myself where I could hoard it all like a glutton and never feel empty again.

11:00pm: “Who’s getting fucked up tonight?!” The DJ yells over club remixes of classic dance songs.

The crowd goes wild.

12:45pm: A girl bangs on a bathroom stall. “Hello? SARAH! If you don’t answer us, we’re calling security.”

A mysterious liquid pools on the bathroom floor, oozing out from the locked stall in a puddle of neon yellow. Is it a spilled yellow VK? (A neon colored alcoholic drink flavored quite like jolly ranchers, for you American folk.)

Is it urine? Is it a yellow VK after it’s been thrown up?

The girl banging on the door is met with silence from the inside. “I’ve called security!” she yells.

Security arrives. The stall is opened.

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