Wearing my Burberry Prorsum quilted-moto and my Adderall high like a cologne-cloud of nouveau-riche toxicity, in this city, I am anything but Zen. I am far from whole. But we knew that.
The doorbell rings and Mynxii announces that the champagne has arrived. Teen dipsomaniac that I am, I jump to the doorway and open the door with a crooked smile. Prodigality running high, I use my credit card— pumped full of my late father’s life insurance money— to foot the bill.