I woke up with a mild hangover, which is uncharacteristic because I don’t drink that much these days. But I had two shots of liquor last night, and I forgot to drink water, so I’m awash with this familiar yet foreign feeling of dehydration and hangover. It feels punk rock. I haven’t felt punk rock in a long time – all the skeezy, scummy habits I used to have are somehow gone, washed away with responsibility of getting older. I have become exactly as boring as I always feared I would – all I do nowadays is wash my dishes immediately after they get dirty, put away clean dishes, and miss my feyonce. I occupy my time doing thinks like recaulking the sink and installing fancy knobs on the cabinets. I have been domesticated. Not by anyone in particular, just through the reality of time. I have been placated. I no longer go to warehouse parties or house shows. I don’t fuck random people just for the sport of it. I use anti-aging creams and pay my mortgage. It feels unsexy. But the idea of doing the same shit that I did in my 20s also feels unsexy. I want to feel dangerous again, but all the dangerous things I did scare me now. I don’t know how to feel dangerous in my 30s without truly ruining my life. I’ve had enough of fucking pretty criminals and getting wasted in the bad part of town. I’m concerned that I don’t have enough money to feel dangerous in my 30s, but that also feels like a sham. Perhaps I’ll indulge myself in some throwback vice just to see if it feels the same. I’ll try cocaine again and embark on a one night affair. Drop mushrooms and be naked in public. I don’t know. Those things all sound cliche. I also like feeling like a princess in a castle, covered up and avoiding everyone. There’s something dangerous about feeling better than other people, and I will hold onto that any way I can. In the meantime, more diet food and, eventually, Botox.