Breathe in.

The smell of humid night air mingled with cologne, chewing gum, copious amounts of vodka, some beer, some bad breath make for that distinctive smell of a good night out taken maybe to the excess. My nostrils grin.

We're walking down Common Garden Street on our way to the club, the six of us, laughing and holding hands. We're already plastered and already having a great night; we've spent about an hour drinking while dolling ourselves up at home, then an hour's worth of 6 flavoured vodka shots chased by a cocktail. The others get a mix of things, but I have my usual: 6 shots of Glacier Mint and one Russian Bride. So. Fucking. Good.

Now? So. Fucking. Plastered.

And I can't stop smiling, can't stop laughing, can't stop breathing and being sofuckingglad I have this breath to inhale.

Get in line at the club and run into more people we know. We laugh and flirt and get in and drink more and dance and dance and dance and flirt some more and maybe one girl hooks up and maybe there's a boy I like and maybe I make eye contact and maybe I kiss him or something...

Exhale.

I open my eyes.

I'm in a room with people I'm not connecting with. The night's almost over and it's only 12. Kris and I head over somewhere to try to make this night better, but it's not happening.

At this point, it's just the two of us. (Not a big change when it was only the three of us an hour earlier.)

We both realise we haven't even been attracted to anyone in months. We haven't had a good night out in months. We haven't come home feeling exhilerated from the evening's Good Times since we were in England.

Hey. At least we made the effort, right?

Continually making this pointless effort makes me wonder why I bother to inhale.

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