On some Friday nights, you drive all the way to Huntington to sit in a church basement, drink the most amazing frozen mocha you’ve ever had, and watch your friend do the bravest thing you can imagine: read her writing out loud. On these nights, you can’t believe you know this person. These incredible words strung together to make even more incredible phrases live inside this woman who gets your thing about your cat, drinks in your backyard, and sometimes dances to hiphop songs in your living room.
Then, on these same Friday nights, you come home and drink a few beers on the couch with your partner in love and crime and watch Lena Dunham on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon and talk about Girls. Then you decide to dye your hair with a box of hair dye that may have expired. You realize it has definitely expired when you nearly choke to death on the fumes. Your aforementioned partner in love and crime opens the bathroom window so you can breathe without making fun of you. After you’ve rinsed the toxic dye out of your hair, you collapse into bed with your Dorothy Parker biography and hope that in a hundred years, some hapless wannabe can fall into bed with a biography of Erica Anderson-Senter and glance across your name among the names of all of Erica’s friends/admirers.
And on some Saturday nights, you go just a couple blocks from your house to watch a TV show that is, if nothing else, an outstanding artistic achievement. You drink gin and talk about the particulars of these episodes and pretty soon, intoxicated by the perfect TV show, kinship, and maybe a little gin, you write weird things like this on a closed social network made up just of the people who are in the room watching Mad Men with you:
Then, when the evening should perhaps be ending, you instead ride to the airport in your friend’s cushy Mercury. You insist that “gin knows how to drive a stick” is your new catchphrase, as if you had a previous catchphrase, and you listen to a band you’ve never heard before and find that you like Of Monsters and Men very much. You nod to yourself as you ride shotgun because Ardmore really is the best way to get to the airport.
When you get home, you’re thinking about Dorothy Parker again. Some nights are just like that.