Dear Blake, Your Birthday was this week. You would be twenty-eight now. You would be a lot of things if the pieces of that night were rearranged differently. I wonder what you'd look like. Still handsome, I'm sure, with that goofy grin decorating your face. Mom threw you a Birthday party again this year. It was nice, but not many of your friends came. I don't want you to think that they've forgotten about you, the impact of your life
1. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. 2. I'm $80,000 in debt and I have to work two jobs to pay my bills. 3. I don't think I ever want to have kids. 4. I feel really lonely most of the time. 5. I really care what you think about me. I mean really really really care. 6. I hate going to the gym and I am throughly confused by people who like it.
I'm twenty-two years old and I'm standing in the bathroom of some dingy club in Manhattan's East Village. I look at myself in the mirror - rosy cheeks and glassy eyes, my brain murky with the drunken dance of alcohol swirling inside it. "I'm going to sleep with her tonight" I tell my reflection. That wasn't my thought, it was the whiskey's, but it seemed like a brilliant idea. I had never slept with a woman before. Sure I had kissed many. I went to college after all and getting drunk and making out with my girlfriends was a typical Friday