This Old Game.

It’s raining and you’re home early because the night is finally over. But your phone keeps buzzin'. They want you to come back out. You’re still half dressed and the alcohol is running through your veins, but you know the night is done. You’re sure of it. It’ll only be cocaine and some weird iPod mix if you go back now. It'll only be empty introductions and people hanging out in their precious, little too-cool-for-school cliques. Out of boredom you’ll hook up with some pretty young thing that you’ve never met before - Someone witty that you started a conversation with - Someone flashy, whose outfit is on-point - You always do. You guys will be in the roomate-that’s-gone-for-the-weekend’s room/kitchen/bathroom and you guys will be makin' out and you’ll notice that her makeup will have mostly come off and that she's starting to look her age. But by then she’s already topless and she’s trying to be "all woman”; trying to “take control”. She's doing things that she learned from her long-term, ex-boyfriend - who had it all wrong. You tune out and you're thinking: “Really? This again? I wonder if the sun's up yet?” and feel the sudden crash from the realization that This. Is. Not. It. The cab driver will have just started his shift when you hail him, and in the back seat you will try and rationalize that this is really “living” after all, and that those highschool bullies, now with their overweight wives and bratty kids, wish they were in your shoes right now. But none of that really matters, because when you get home your bed feels oh-so good. It hugs you into your passageway of sweet, blissful sleep. And thank God it’s raining and you’re home early because the night is finally over. But your phone keeps buzzin'. They want you to come back out. You're still half dressed and the alcohol is running through your veins, but you know the night is done.

Excerpt from ‘L.E.S. Artistes (The Cassius Kent Memoirs)’