I turn on the shower to let the water warm, while I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Maybe it’s a good thing I live alone. It wouldn’t be fair for someone to have to wake up to this hot mess every morning. As I’m sifting through the exorbitant amount of product taking over my bathroom counter, I scold myself for wasting my money on so much of what I don‘t need, sleeping in my makeup, sleeping most of this day away, and sleeping with that random guy last night, simultaneously. I finally find the makeup remover and begin to wipe what’s left of my mascara off my faux lash extensions. The rest has migrated down my cheek a bit, I’m guessing from the tears during my near death experience. My brown eyes look sad and tired.

I can’t believe I slept with that guy. What was his name again?

When I’m done removing what seems like three days worth of makeup, I begin the sifting process again, this time looking for a brush. I have thirty brushes, yet I can’t find one. I settle on a comb and begin to pick away at the rats nest that is my hair. I put enough hairspray in my hair last night for Dallas and the Jersey Shore to run on for a year and the long, dark brown waves it was holding together are putting up a fight.

What was his name? Old age is already taking a toll on my memory. Damn, he was hot.

“Ouch!” My comb just found the fuck mat my messy bun was concealing. I deserve that. I can’t even remember his name. He had great hair. I catch myself standing there with my hand over my head, mid-comb, thinking about running my hands through that great hair. Pulling - pulling his hair. Billy? Bobby?

I finally get through all the knots in my now frizzy mane, vowing to cut it all off at my next hair appointment, and start to undress. It doesn‘t take me long as I’m only wearing a gray t-shirt with the word “Austin” printed in white and a picture of a dude with shaggy hair snorting the word up his nose, and my thong from last night. Actually, no. That isn't the one I was wearing last night. Huh. Jeez, I’m a mess.

Ben? Beau? Richard? No, definitely a “B” name. Buck? Oh, I hope not. Not like I’ll be talking to him again, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Just then my thoughts are interrupted by the huge bruise just under my ribs. Oh my. That’s not going to be pretty in a bikini on the boat tomorrow. I’m really regretting telling Mia I would go to that stupid boat party. It’s ridiculous really. a bunch of single, incredibly rich, incredibly douchey middle aged perverts and a slew of beautiful, stupid girls in their twenties on a boat in the middle of the lake. Open bar and bikini required, removal of said bikini encouraged. It takes all of four minutes and one strong drink on an empty stomach before the girls are happy to oblige. It’s sad to watch, actually, but Mia begged me to go. Her friends invited her and apparently these summer boat parties are what they live for the rest of the year. She said she needed a friend who would keep her top on like she was planning to do. She’s only 24 but has a good head on her shoulders. She reminds me a lot of myself in my twenties. Before my life took a nosedive, apparently.

I can’t see my reflection any longer in the steamy mirror. I step into the shower and let the hot water wash away yet another crazy night downtown. What in the world am I doing? I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal at home, and I can’t remember the last time I didn’t order alcohol with a meal. I work full time at a high end clothing boutique purely for the discount, and what I don’t spend of my paycheck on clothes, I spend partying. I have no savings and I’m up to my ears in credit card debt. I have an art degree I’m still paying for, yet not using. I have more acquaintances than Bill Gates has money, yet the only two people who know me well are my therapist and Sloan.

Shit! I missed my therapy appointment this morning. Great, that overpriced hour just got more expensive. Does “sorry, I was trying to find interesting ways to kill myself” count as a good excuse? Maybe I should rephrase that.

I’d like to just stand here and hide in warm water for another hour, but I have to get ready for dinner with Sloan tonight. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. A low key, meal with my bestie is what I’ve needed after “Birthday Extravaganza 2012.” She's the only one who knows my true self, but I can't bullshit her either. We used to tear this city up together until she left me here in Single’s Ville and married her high school sweet heart and had babies. Damn her.

I hear my phone going off in the other room and roll my eyes out the door to go see who it is.

Hey girl! Happiest birthday! You were crazy last night! Hope you had a great week!

Oh god. How crazy? I hope I didn’t embarrass myself. Of course, I can’t remember much of it after all the birthday shots.

Hi sweetie, it’s your mother. I can’t believe my baby girl is 34 years old. I remember the day you were born like it was just yesterday. Your father wishes you a happy birthday too. We miss you! I tried calling but you never answer your phone. Call me please. Call your poor mother.

She still doesn’t know that she doesn’t have to tell me who she is when she calls or texts. She just barely got a cell phone, and in all honesty, I think it’s purely to text me or be available if and when I decide to call. I’m an awful daughter. I really should talk to my parents more. Sometimes, I just get so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I don’t realize when weeks have gone by. I vow to call her on my way to dinner.

Hey sexy, how’s the cat?

What? I don’t recognize the number and it isn’t saved in my phone. Who the hell is this from? And “how’s the cat?” I freeze and all of a sudden feeling very exposed standing in my towel, I quickly check all the windows. Blinds closed. I check the front door. Locked. I quickly survey the room to make sure there isn’t some creep standing in my apartment. What the hell?

What? Who is this?

It’s Blair, silly. Have you already deleted me from your memory? Last night wasn’t that bad was it?

Oh! Blair! With the hair. I laugh out loud at the irony of his name and my only clear memory of him being that hair. Soft, long, blonde hair. And he was here? In my apartment? I can’t believe I invited a guy here, to this trashed apartment, where I live alone. And don’t remember it. Seriously?

Oh, hi. I must have saved your number incorrectly. Um, the cat is fine. 　

the beginning. . .

shit.

i can't breathe. i'm pretty sure i'm choking on the last bite of my leftover birthday cake. it was stale and totally not worth what could have possibly just been my last breath. don't panic, my inner voice shouts at me. i ignore her and start to panic.

shit. shit. shit!

looking frantically around my apartment for somthing to hurl myself against, i see my cat, toby. he's lounging on the back of the couch, arms and legs draped over either side, looking at me with utter indifference as my eyes start to water. he's such a little asshole. i'm going to die, right here and now, in this sad studio apartment while my cat watches witout even a twitch from his tail. he's not even my cat, just a reminder of an ex mistake.

i'm starting to feel light headed. i can't feel my feet. my fingers, now clutched around my throat, are beginning to tingle. I run toward the back of the couch and launch myself onto it, stomach first. nothing. oh god, what do i do if this doesn't work? my vision is starting to cloud. i stumble back, and try again. the cat has just barely noticed me at this point and lifts his head as the would-have-been-lethal bite smacks him in the face. his ears fold back and he hisses at me as he jumps to the floor with disgust.

oh don't worry, toby, the feeling is mutual.

relieved and gasping for air, the welcome oxygen burns my lungs. i cringe as the pain radiates through my rib cage. my stomach is killing me and i can feel the ugly bruise forming on my abdomen. i collapse on the couch, which has now scooted 6 inches from where it normally sits, and the reality of what could have happened starts to sink in. i just almost died on my 34th birthday. i'm single and living alone. i'm a damn cat lady. i take a big slug of leftover wine out of a coffee mug that, ironically, has "i love my cat" painted on the side. i still have a lump in my throat. ugh, what am i doing with my life?

my phone beeps at me for 274th time today, and i wish that were an exaggeration. another person wishing me a happy (you didn't just die) birthday, i'm sure. i consider turning it off, but swipe the screen to unlock it and see that it's sloan's fifth message today.

leighton. are you dead?

huh?

my best friend has this ridiculously uncanny way of knowing exactly what's going with me. sometimes, it's rather annoying, but i guess if i were, oh i don't know, lying dead in my apartment with a baked good lodged in my throat she'd be the first one to find me.

ive been texting all day, everything ok?

yeah. i need a damn dog.

what? what are you talking about? im calling, answer.

bout to get in the shower, i'll call in a min

i can hear the phone ringing as i walk into the bathroom, and close the only door in the apartment behind me.