Episode one: 24

     My head throbs. I'm tasting whiskey and ash; my head feels full of lead. My alarm is screaming “It’s 6:00 AM, bitch!” and I can’t remember where I’ve left my work clothes. Glancing at the “admitted” stamp on my right wrist, I remember punching my cell number into a Cirque du Soleil acrobat’s phone. Rolling over, my stomach feels like it's at sea and I know I'm not going to get tipped well today. I'm 24, and so far, it sucks.

Today, the diner is empty. Manuel the dishwasher mumbles in my ear while I'm wiping down the counter: "wassup, my nigga?" I shake my head and say, "No digas. Do you want to get beat up?" 
“No me gusta menos que venticinco,” one of the head chefs mumbles to the other in Spanish, while looking at me. I stare at them, and they laugh.

I look down at my stained blouse, covered in our crappy Costco condiments- the blood, sweat and tears of what used to be food. I did not picture that two years after getting my degree, I’d still be shepherding greasy cheeseburgers to unsettled families.I suddenly feel like a bad punch line to a Republican joke (redundant?).

At three, I walk through my front door and smell mold. The living room still looks like shit, and clearly our landlord hasn’t dealt with the flooding in the basement. I go into my room and close the door behind me. I put on "Kind of Blue" again and start to roll a joint on the floor. 

I hate 24 because I’m just that much closer to 25; the year that I really should be paying off my school loan and my own phone bill. The next ten years zip through my head and up my spine; job applications, troubling dates, and never having enough money. All I can do for now is dance, drink, and wait for the acrobat to call.