LOOSE TOOTH// LOST YOUTH

Welcome to the sex trade. London, New York, Paris, Milan. Don’t call them. Because they won’t call you. Right now, we’re on top of the world. At some French restaurant we can’t pronounce the name of. And we just took our seventy third trip to the restroom, and you’re worried about the time it took. So of course we tell you there was a line. But in reality, the only lines here are the ones we just inhaled off of the slowly rusting metallic shield of the toilet paper dispenser. And of course the one we snorted haphazardly off of the filth-tiled ground, all the while scrambling to keep our expensive clothes off of the floor, because we spilled the excess and didn’t want it to go to waste. Upon our return, we stick a fork in our steak tartare and give some halfassed excuse like “its not rare enough.” or, “it’s burnt.” and we settle for one or nine glasses of chardonnay instead. and you pay the bill, and we go back to your loft and we hate ourselves for millionth time this week. We’d love to say we know what we’re talking about, but at the moment, we’re bloated. Can’t think straight. Probably should have “toned up” or some shit. A life, spread out across the board, trickling down into some shit-rent studio, and maybe the most chic looking bar bar you could find this week. we take a shot, and then another, and a few more, before slipping off to beauty. redbull vodka makes for quite an interesting cocktail. one made of insecurity and the childhood dreams keeping us awake at night. The last baby carrot in the bag, a wonderful late dinner for two. We eat it over candle light and contemplate our next move. Tomorrow we will fall into frame unanticipated, and without precedent, stumbling over our own feet, and closing our eyes under the heat of the light. You pick the “best” out of the bunch, and send it out for distribution. This is the weight of retribution, hidden in a fog of clarity. We only came here for a good time. That, and for the money. But all of it is gone now. And though we hate to admit it, we’re not shocked by the lack of pain. This sort of emptiness is to be expected, if not predicted. But we’re still waiting on the feeling. Some sort of sign that what we’re doing is wrong. And though it kills us to say it, in this moment, we’re painless. In this moment we’re weightless. Slowly fading, like stars in the night sky. Dead before you even saw it coming.

photo ©Ari Abramczyk