The Parsnip

Entry number 3.


The shitty wine makes me feel warm and boundless, not tired. The flames under my feet on the dance floor mimic the burning butt of the cigarette I smoke outside. And I know everyone is watching me when I dance.

I love the moment when I pull my gay friend Tyler into me and his head rolls back, shouting, “You’re so dom, I LOVE IT!” before kissing me straight on the mouth. My lips are parted because I’m breathing hard.

A girl from a neighboring college sings into something that resembles a white carrot. I will spend the uber ride home contemplating the name of that mystery vegetable with two strangers and a lover.

My dress is damp, my feet are sticky and my eyes are dripping black.

The youthfulness of it all is beautiful in a way I used to think melancholy is beautiful — as if we were all experiencing nostalgia as the events unfolded around us.

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