The end of the party has come, and yet I choose not to acknowledge it. This house was full at one time, full of kids and hormones on a sweaty summer night, but there aren’t many on their feet anymore. The heat has finally broken, yielding to the cool morning air; it’s finally comfortable, but I’m too drunk to notice or to care. People are sleeping everywhere inside the house and outside on the lawn. I know I should find a quiet little corner and curl up by myself, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I know that the night is done, there will be no more people coming over, no more surprises. I’m drunk to the point where I can’t really communicate any longer, mostly hand gestures and gibberish, but I’m not ready to throw in the towel. I’m drunk, and bored, and probably a little bit lonely, and yet I feel the need to find one more drink. To go to bed now seems to be admitting defeat. I think that if I stay up just a little bit longer, that maybe she’ll call, except I know she won’t. I’ll get up in the morning and drink some more, anything to push off the wicked hangover that will eventually catch up with me. Clown around with friends, and live life just a little bit more, a little more ridiculous and a little more reckless. Summer nights allow me to feel alive, even when I’m smashing an ice luge with a logging ax for no apparent reason. Maybe especially then. I’m not sure how it was that I came to be like this, to feel the need to constantly push things just a little bit further. Life is boring; I’m just making it slightly less so.