Don't You Forget About Me

by Mhairi McFarlane

I’m sucking down wine fast and writing myself an internal memo about how an athletic ability to find the positive—the sort that’s drilled into girls especially: be grateful, smile!—isn’t always a good thing. Sometimes you should ask yourself why you’re having to.

“I don’t know if there’s anyone I want to pick. I’ve never fallen for anyone . . .” I plow on, unable to meet her eye, reckless in drink: “Well, maybe once. When very young and stupid. But turns out it didn’t mean anything.”

These first few minutes of consciousness with a hangover are the worst, like waking up in a field after being thrown from a car crash, only you were the car crash.

Poetry

To be honest, a lot of counseling appears to be accepting you’re up to your tits in shit and finding you’re zen about it. Saying: at least my tits are warm.