OP-ED: Help, I’m Drunk in the Pottruck Pool Again

It’s a Wednesday night and I’m drunk in the Pottruck pool. Just floating. Just thinking. 

I’ve been here before. I know it — it’s a feeling I can’t seem to shake. The gentle lapping of waves. The buzz of the fluorescent lights. The chlorinated burn. The never ending drip...

Oh man, not again. I said I wouldn’t come back. Why did I have to take things so far. “Come to Smokes,” they said. “Sink or Swim,” they begged. I’ve always been too literal for my own good. 

A security guard is yelling at me now. He says “Get out! Get out of the pool! For real, what the hell are you doing in the pool right now — this is super weird? I’ll let you stay for a few more minutes if you’ll just stop murmuring weird shit to yourself and singing songs from Lorde’s ‘Melodrama.’ Come on dude, this isn’t The Perks of Being a Wallflower, get the hell out.” If only it were that easy —

I am infinite — weightless. I am gliding effortlessly towards my destiny. In this moment, I believe I was born here. And I know, someday, it is here I will die.