Wasted Youth

My youth is over. I realized this last night when Gangsta Boo & I were driving back from Jack In The Box, and he said, “I think I’m too fucked up to be driving.” I had been gripping my seat as we occasionally veered through the mostly empty streets of Berkeley. “If there were more cars out, we’d be in trouble,” he said.

I immediately launched into a state of panic even though I knew we were just fine. It occurred to me that I must have a death wish because this is the second time in a week that we’ve been in this situation, and I’ve just let it happen. But all I could say was, “You shouldn’t be driving, this is really scary.”

Back in the day, I had no problem riding shot gun with a drunk driver. This was, of course, incredibly stupid, yet here I still am. A good friend of mine used to drive drunk every time he went out, and he’d give me rides places. Over time, I realized that this was bad, bad, bad. So I stopped because that sense of immorality has started to evade me. Or, maybe what I mean to say: my youth is over because my stupidity is waning.

This is very uninteresting to me. I kinda wanna sigh and roll my eyes. Sure, I am in no way excited by the idea of sleeping with multiple strangers every weekend or getting black out drunk all the time or spending all my money on sequined booty shorts that disintegrate after you wear them one time. But I guess I haven’t found a new thrill to supplant the old ones. Mortality is settling in, and I’m having trouble recreating that sense of endless possibility.

Instead, I’m sitting in the car, realizing that this could be it, and if this is it, then that’s it, and it’s all over. Even though I know we’ll get home fine, I’ve lost that sense of assurance that we’ll get home fine. The risks are ever increasing, the rewards remain the same.

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