Jay Gawel

This post-doughnut aftermath is grim. It’s not in my job description, but the rest of this workday will be spent curled up in the backseat of my car, sobbing and trying to avoid catching my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I was once a conquistador, a Cortés with an unquenchable thirst for new lands to explore, plunder, and exploit for Aztec gold. Consumed by wonder and unbridled optimism I thought the best about any and all potential sexual prospects.

Once you’re twenty-five, you’ve done the blaring, sticky-with-shame dance bars enough and you’re over it. You still dig music, but you also like being able to banter without having to scream like it’s Thanksgiving and you’re talking to your decrepit, senile relatives.

Trade all day. Party all night. Never sleep. Never die. No question, I was using round the clock. I’d carry a baggy of product with me and rub a dab of Peruvian brown in my gums for little pick me ups throughout the day.