Broken Beer Glass. 4:17am
I’m angry at myself.
Angry at the boy sitting next to myself.
Angry at the sister sitting across from the boy and myself.
Angry at the cousin sitting across from the sister sitting across from the boy and myself.
Angry because they let her drink so much.
Angry because she drank so much.
Angry because he flirted with me and they let him. Angry because they told him he could date me.
Angry because they were telling me that he was cute. He was nice. He liked me.
Angry because whether or not any of it was true, he still sat right next to me with his knee leaning against mine and I had to squeeze onto the picnic bench to keep a distance from him.
Angry because it was a bar.
Angry because they said it was fun, to drink and be merry, and I defended them.
Angry because their “drink and be merry” ended with someone needing to be propped up to stand, and vomiting.
Angry because I’ve been given time to think about the situation and everything I failed at and worry about what I did wrong, when they just kept drinking and literally pushed us together and got sick, and aren’t going to be able to think for some time.
Angry because there is a balance, a way to do things correctly, and it became distorted.
(Draft from January 15, 2014)