It's 8:30am on Sunday morning and I feel like dying. I haven't slept. I've been partying for four days straight. I've been drinking. I've been doing drugs. I'm about to finish the last eight cigs in my girlfriend's pack before I go purchase another one of my own. Part of me feels great because total delusion and psychosis don't happen every day and it's almost fun to take this in.
Most of the turmoil I'm experiencing is because of the current lack of existence of another human soul. Wifey got too high and went to sleep at 2am in our bedroom. Grace left at 4. Steven left at 4. Bauce left at 4. Everybody left at, like, 4. I texted most of the people who were here like, "Can't believe this night is over," desperately, but still discreetly looking for a post-game situation. One of my boys was actually the plug and we drank beer until 7am, but that only postponed the comedown.
We don't want great nights to end because it means a stark return to reality is coming and it hurts. You're not high off the euphoria of human connection and intoxicants anymore. Parties are this weird, brief utopia. And, I mean, what are parties? Last night, we stood in a room for six hours, listening to music, talking and getting fucked up. That's literally it and it was the most fun I've ever had. It's this dreamlike, temporary blur where nothing matters and life seems perfect and you can't imagine things ever being any other way and then the sun rises and it's over.
I'm significantly worse at coming to terms with these circumstances than anyone else. I cried leaving Toronto. I cried leaving NYC. It's that feeling when you're on the way to the airport for an early flight and you know the night's finished. Everything that just happened is a memory. There's a distinct melancholy in the air during those hours. The reason records like "We Can't Stop" and "Turn Down for What" are so successful is because they glorify the fantasy of infinite gratification. They promote the idea that your best nights can last forever. If anything, the minutes on a good night pass with greater resolve. How many times have you looked up and said, "Wow, I didn't know it was this late already"? But having fun is about suspending disbelief just long enough to embrace the thought that maybe this night can last forever.
No one wants to be alone. No one wants to get that Uber. We know what's waiting for us out there.
But it always ends and it's always sad. It's like when vacations are over. It's like Sunday nights. You know when Puffy says, "I'll touch down in your city, fuck shit up, then fly back"? That's not me. I'll touch down in your city, fuck shit up, fly back, then sit and ponder for days and wonder if life will ever be good again. That's basically what birthdays and holidays come to represent once you're an adult. Even when they're excellent, my personal aftermath is defined by getting emotional over the fact that people I'm related to love me and were nice to me.
I hold onto good moments for way too long. I'm still thinking about the Kid Cudi concert at Barclays back in March. I'm still thinking about the Nicki Minaj party I threw with some friends back in May. Full disclosure: My brain was so wracked from MDMA on both occasions that it no doubt intensified the post-event grieving, but even with a clear head, months later, those are nights that I genuinely want to recreate constantly. That also goes for any occasion when "We Dem Boyz" or "Trophies" or "0-100" or "Danny Glover" made my night.
I know I'm not the only person who longs for a moment after it's gone. I can tell by the way other people always try to keep the night going. Here's another song. Here's another conversation. Here's another line. And the night does keep going because people are afraid. No one wants to be alone. No one wants to get that Uber. We know what's waiting for us out there.
So, 8:30am hurts. I'm standing on the precipice of a legendary hangover. Trash is everywhere. I can't believe that I have an actual fucking elevator in my crib, but the only reason I care about it is because everyone thought it was cool last night. The elevator itself is not keeping my company right now. The elevator can't do anything besides send me to the depths of hell for more poison to delay the onset of this depression. How is this over? I need another night like this, until it's back to 8:30am and this remorse washes over me again.
Ernest Baker is a writer living in New York. Follow him on Twitter here.