Saturday was my birthday, after 18 I've come to see it mainly as an excuse to call people and get them to come over with gifts and alcohol. They did, so we drank too much and went into the night in our pretty little vintage dresses and stiletto heeled shoes. Walking the crowded streets looking for a club I got a strange feeling of time relentlessly moving forward never to come back. Maybe it was the Black Russians or the menthol cigarettes, but for the first time I could feel in my own blood how no youth can last forever, not even mine.
We found a bar where we could dance to sad songs and get more free drinks from boys in oversized black framed glasses. An ad man named Fred tried his best to convince me we would be together for the rest of our lives if I would just give him one night, but I had to tell him that could never happen. Despite my sudden age angst and dedication to live at least that particular night to the fullest, there's one thing I would simply never do: sleep with a guy wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt.