Interlude of the Past

This is where I was a month ago:
It was a black spinning hole, scattered with bursts of cheap gold stars, and all the free bottles of liquor were drinken, and all the half-empty bottles of wine, and all the fierce almost undrinkable whiskey was gone. Mostly she remembered the kitchen- warm, full of people, and sitting on Sean's lap while he rubbed her back. What a glorious feeling when she was in the hole: to be touched, polished, appreciated, on-the-shelf with a high price-tag stuck tenuously to her forehead. And blurs of emotion and relationships slurring past her in the stream. But she was either weighed down on the river bed, or out of the water altogether, she wasn't sure which, so there was nothing she could do to interact positively with them.

And I need to keep reminding myself of this when I venture out tomorrow.