It's 2013. It's Friday night and you finally got invited to a party. You're only a couple of years older than everyone in the room and when you walk in they recognize you from that one show you played at Nick's house a couple months ago. They asked you if you're still with that girl you write all your songs about and you respond that you aren't.
For the first hour, you sit on a couch next to that one girl who was at that show a couple months ago who kept making eye contact with you while you played that one song that had the lyric, "I wish you were the mistake I was brave enough to make". And since you're socially inept, you didn't say anything until she noticed that you weren't drinking.
She popped a bottle cap of a beer that was more expensive than your tee-shirt (you got it from a lost-and-found so even the cheapest of beers would be more expensive than that shirt) and handed it to you. She asked you about your music but you deflected the questions. She asked you about your last relationship but you ducked her inquiries. You were bobbing and weaving through her interrogation until she laughed at something you said and put her hand on your leg.
You spent most of the night talking to her. Sharing cigarettes and stories about being unemployed and then employed and then unemployed again. Sharing suggestive glances and the way she'd link her index finger around yours in secret. You were confused but you were also too drunk to care.
As the party thinned out, you found yourself in the bathtub located in the upstairs bathroom. This was something you did when you drank too much. You never felt guilty for throwing up all over yourself if there was a drain nearby. But you weren't here to puke. You were here because you wanted to feel surrounded and sure. Safe from everyone downstairs and your new best friend who started running her fingers through your hair after she smoked a little too much.
You curled into a sleeping position -- knees up into your chest, arms around your shins -- and wished you didn't leave your house. You recapped all the empty conversations and promises you made to "play Nick's house again". And that's when she walked in and pulled you out of the tub and dropped you into her bed. You knew that this didn't mean anything and she knew you were easy -- you make it clear in all your songs.
It's 2016. It's Tuesday night and you get a text message from an unfamiliar number. They ask if you're still playing music.
They ask if you're still writing songs about them.
They ask if you ever got your shit together. They ask about the bathtub thing.