The party’s over; it’s time to go home. Can’t you see that?
You can’t even get a ride home.
The room smells like stale beer, cigarette butts float in the half-empty glass on the counter.
A used condom peeks out from under the stained couch.
Where are your friends?
That endless ringing phone—voice mail again—you think that’s a coincidence?
Nah, man, come on! Think about it. It’s used up, all that glad-handing and smiling faces and “appreciation”. We’ve tolerated it long enough. It’s served its purpose.
Really.
You did a good job. The best one you could have done. Well done, you.
Go on home now. You’ll find a way. There’s a soft place for you to rest your head.