The girl in the photo is drunk. She drank gin and tonic all night because she likes how they glow a fluorescent blue under black lights, and is now drinking as much water as possible as she has to work the next day. She is trying to swallow two aspirins that are stuck somewhere in her throat. She can taste aspirin dust. She’s wearing a skirt. Who wears a skirt to a punk rock show? She remembers thinking as she walked into the club. She didn’t really care. She is also wearing a t-shirt with cartoon pictures depicting cliché evil villains, such as “the evil robot”, “the gangster puppet” and “mad scientist”. Not exactly bad-ass.
The girl is in the apartment she is subletting from a stranger she found on Craigslist from Xalapa, Mexico, in the tiny bathroom. She is thirsty; too thirsty to make it all the way to the kitchen for a drink. The bathroom is literally four steps from the bed in that apartment. She thinks it is funny to take photos of herself when she is drunk. She is right. This girl just got back to the ancient apartment building from a punk rock show, which happened nearby. She is covered in bruises. She had elbowed her way to the very front of the mosh pit to get in front. She is proud of the fact that she can always get to the front, and doubly proud that the singer of this band came into the crowd and she wrapped her arms around his waist and ultimately hugged him as he was singing. She is disgusted by the thought of strangers’ sweat on her clothes. She is glad she didn’t hurt her nose because her septum piercing is still not quite healed.
This girl will later decide not to tell anybody about hugging the singer of the band once she sobers up, as it is really not something to be proud of. He is horse-faced and greasy. She will look him up on the internet and feel as though she did something wrong.
On her death bed she will not remember that moment, it was nothing. She may not even remember liking punk rock.
novasawatzky 