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I stare at the empty bottle in front of me, watching the harsh fluorescent light of my desk lamp refract through the glass. Its a Tuesday night, and though one should not be drunk on a Tuesday night, especially when one has Introduction to Contemporary English Literature at fuck-me oclock in the morning, Ive never been one to do what I should. The room is spinning in a most charming fashion and the air reeks of gin and solitude. I can almost taste the desolation. Should have gotten a double, though Im not sure Id prefer the torture of constant interaction to being cast adrift in the doldrums of clutter and ennui. I tend to wax poetic when Im drunk, its one of my more charming flaws, or so Im told. By myself. Though someone, somewhere probably finds it charming. Or not. I really dont give a shit. I should call someone. The girl with the red lipstick from Saturday night. Or was it Friday? Maybe both, maybe neither, it doesnt fucking matter. Nothing really matters in the long run I suppose but this didnt matter even in the visceral way that petty day-today things matter. I guess we all measure people by their worth to us, and sex doesnt need a name. Now that may sound crude but in a way, isnt it empowering? This nameless girl is sex, she is Venus, Aphrodite, Ishtar, Isis, Cleopatra, Mata Hari, Galatea. She is desire. But at the same time, by keeping her nameless she is entirely within my power. She is robbed of individuality, she is everything and anything I want her to be and in that sense, fucking her is entirely masturbatory. But to call her means looking her up in my phone, which means learning her name, which gives her power. So solitude.

I pull a Black & Mild from the paper bag under my desk and unwrap it. I flick open my zippo and gaze into the flames for a second as I head over to the window and throw it open, lighting my cigar and leaning my head out into the cold night. The tobacco smoke mixes with the fresh air. The cold gives clarity, the smoke gives a killer head rush. Fire and ice in perfect balance. I think as I smoke, think as the world spins and spirals and twirls, caught in the labyrinth of light that is the dorm across the quad. Each light is a life and as they flicker out one by one, they die. The burning cigar flicks up and down, a bobbing red eye peering out into the darkness. I wonder if my parents knew I would end up like this, a lush smoking cheap cigars and staring at the stars. People say such phony fucking shit about stars. Its fucking pinpoints of light in the dark it doesnt mean shit. Even when Im high, I dont look for meaning, in the stars or anywhere else. But theyre fun to look at. So I look at them for a while against the pale glow of the snow. The cigar burns low, singeing my fingertips. I flick the stub into the snow; it arcs through the air like an arrow. My fingers are numb but I feel great. Golden. Like an Egyptian tomb, filled with the riches and might of an ancient empire. I grab the empty gin bottle from my desk and dangle it from the window, letting it fall onto the ground below where it shatters into a million tiny pieces.