Punch Me In The Gut

5AM. Saltines and soup.

Slurp. Crunch. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. Crunch.

I woke up this morning to catch the sun rise over Raspberry Island but I missed it while I was snooping 30 weeks deep in your Instagram feed.

I told myself "I am going to start living," 

 "Be a youth in revolt."

I even made a tweet about it: "Fuck social media! *rant rant rant rant rant rant rant rant rant* everyone's eyes are glued to a screen! When's the last time anyone has seen the sun rise, huh?" But it's over 90-something characters so it's been drafted.

I finally take my eyes off the screen and I notice the diner has mirrors all along the walls.
Fight me. Punch me in the gut. Who is that looking back at me? 5AM-me is a stranger. Too bad I can't just "head tilt" and "sepia" myself from blending in with all the homeless people and hungover twenty-something club goers who all pretty much look the same right now.

The waitress keeps looking back at me like I'm about to dine-and-dash or throw up on the floor. I see a cute guy who's obviously gay-gay-gay but he won't even bat a lash my way. How is it that I can get 80 little red hearts for a selfie and KISSY face emojis in the comments but zero of that in person?

Crunch. Crunch. Slurp. Crunch.

I pull out the napkins and grab my favorite pen. I think of you. I think of him. Shit is about to get real. I start my rant, but then I feel that punch in the gut. I head tilt, sepia and post. Take the hearts to heart and the kisses to my virtual cheek and start living there instead.

FILTER ME ON MY DEATHBED

(Because I’m not sure I'm confident enough to go without).

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