I’m at the Vice magazine party surrounded by the marginally famous and enough booze to turn me into a literal piss drunk. I arrive in poor shape from a Sunday spent doing yak and taking triples of tequila on an hourly basis, trying to forget a girl who came and saw and conquered. Stuck in the elevator trying to get to the Penthouse, uneasy, anxious and absurdly overblown with an outbreak of self-pity. The weather is caressing, cloudy but sweet, I stare at the Hudson, I wish I was drowning. Rapidly accelerating my alcohol intake, two three four, god I’m fucked. I strike up conversations, I’ll charm your pants off. Negative correlation between my outward cheeriness and my inward nostalgia. You wouldn’t know it. I hide it well. Champagne, Vodka, Gin, Whisky, Beer and white Wine. Kill me please. Start rummaging through the pockets of a jacket left on the chair I’m sitting on. It’s Suroosh Alvi’s, fuck fuck fuck. We head downstairs to a private party, I tell our guide that my friend Scott is Suroosh, he looks kinda Arabic, not entirely un-feasible. We smoke, I run out, take a cab to midtown and go to sleep at my job, wake up in a puddle of piss. The gluttony of love.