This is 40

Our drunkenness from Friday night was a stark reminder. Life does its best to squeeze us down into tiny, little, easily identifiable cubes, but once in a while you have to put a Doors concert on and burn all your clothes in the middle of the room as people run and fuck around it in a primitive, selfish dance of ancient rituals, where bodily fluids are used as currency and an audience judges your lustful performance. Sometimes you have to let the ghosts from your past come in and you have to offer them beer and sexual favors in exchange for a few hours of remembering who you are. I would have gladly marked my body that night, just to be able to look at the scar and be reminded that I am not who most people think I am.