Change
Introduction to Jay
Jay
It was after waking up next to the umpteenth girl after the umpteenth one-night stand I’d experienced since I turned 17 that I decided that I had to change my life. After I found my clothes, and pulled them on, I had left the faceless blonde girl sleeping, and found my way out of the trashy hotel, feeling terribly hung over.
Of course, throwing away my cigarettes into the first bin I came across when I stumbled out of the hotel lobby, and telling myself that I was going to stop drinking and partying was all very well while I was still half asleep, but my empty pocket and those lies didn’t help much when I was craving that tobacco hit after my morning coffee and that female-shaped ‘hit’ when a pretty girl at work caught my attention.
Needless to say, I went through several failed attempts at changing my life, because I just couldn’t seem to kick my habits, but when I woke up in hospital with a cracked skull and having had my stomach pumped of all the alcohol I had consumed the night before, I knew that I couldn’t keep going on with the life I was living. I mean, I’m 25. It’s time to cut the crap and grow up. I’m not an immortal teenager anymore. I can’t keep drifting through life on a cloud of smoke and sex and expect to get anywhere. I need to quit my job; I mean, I work at a strip club for God’s sake (not as a stripper, to all you smartasses who were about to comment, as a barman). If my job isn’t a sign of my own immaturity, I don’t know what is. Except maybe the huge amount of canvas “paintings” scattered around my crappy apartment. One thing I love, or should I say loved to do when I was high, was pretend that I was an artist. When I couldn’t get my hands on paint, I used other materials: shampoo, melted chocolate, once even my own blood (I had accidentally cut myself on a broken beer bottle). It’s ridiculous the amount of canvases I have. There’s barely enough room for me in my apartment; my “paintings” take up most of the room.
They’re the first things of my old life to go, my job will be second, my stoner friends will be third. Starting from today, I will finally act my age.
My canvases are in the boot of my car. I am sober, I am determined. This is my starting point.
I start my car (if you could even call it that; it’s more like a pile of scrap metal on wheels) and pull out of my allocated parking space, and then, I began my journey towards adult-hood.
It was after waking up next to the umpteenth girl after the umpteenth one-night stand I’d experienced since I turned 17 that I decided that I had to change my life. After I found my clothes, and pulled them on, I had left the faceless blonde girl sleeping, and found my way out of the trashy hotel, feeling terribly hung over.
Of course, throwing away my cigarettes into the first bin I came across when I stumbled out of the hotel lobby, and telling myself that I was going to stop drinking and partying was all very well while I was still half asleep, but my empty pocket and those lies didn’t help much when I was craving that tobacco hit after my morning coffee and that female-shaped ‘hit’ when a pretty girl at work caught my attention.
Needless to say, I went through several failed attempts at changing my life, because I just couldn’t seem to kick my habits, but when I woke up in hospital with a cracked skull and having had my stomach pumped of all the alcohol I had consumed the night before, I knew that I couldn’t keep going on with the life I was living. I mean, I’m 25. It’s time to cut the crap and grow up. I’m not an immortal teenager anymore. I can’t keep drifting through life on a cloud of smoke and sex and expect to get anywhere. I need to quit my job; I mean, I work at a strip club for God’s sake (not as a stripper, to all you smartasses who were about to comment, as a barman). If my job isn’t a sign of my own immaturity, I don’t know what is. Except maybe the huge amount of canvas “paintings” scattered around my crappy apartment. One thing I love, or should I say loved to do when I was high, was pretend that I was an artist. When I couldn’t get my hands on paint, I used other materials: shampoo, melted chocolate, once even my own blood (I had accidentally cut myself on a broken beer bottle). It’s ridiculous the amount of canvases I have. There’s barely enough room for me in my apartment; my “paintings” take up most of the room.
They’re the first things of my old life to go, my job will be second, my stoner friends will be third. Starting from today, I will finally act my age.
My canvases are in the boot of my car. I am sober, I am determined. This is my starting point.
I start my car (if you could even call it that; it’s more like a pile of scrap metal on wheels) and pull out of my allocated parking space, and then, I began my journey towards adult-hood.
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Greetings :)As the chapter title suggests, you've met Jay!
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