Chelsea. Nineteen. Pittsburgh.






Vodka is my best friend tonight and I am perfectly okay with that. I am perfectly okay with nearly everything, in fact. A rare combination for me. An utterly impossible realm of existence, in which I am almost comfortably residing tonight. Eight shots in and I’m going strong, my inarguable ability to effortlessly binge drink allowing me to type this. After hours of seemingly amazing conversation, my friends have all fallen asleep. It’s sad, you know. Years of shit acquaintances and I finally make a solid few friends that I can trust and genuinely enjoy spending my days with, sober or not. Yet, in one short week, they’ll be gone. I’ll be gone. And what will I have left, besides the knowledge that there are people out there worthy of crafting a friendship with? I have this person that I am entirely fucking in love with, and that is MORE than enough. I have the baby steps to our future. I have things for which to look forward. Nine shots strong and I have you.