<div class="floatleft">(http://i45.tinypic.com/10n5iec.jpg)</div><br/><hr/><br/><strong><span class="bbc_u">Where</span>: Bedroom Apartment #8<br/><span class="bbc_u">When</span>: Friday, around 3 PM<br/><span class="bbc_u">Tag</span>: open</strong>(probably none though, this is a workable place holder)<br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/><br/><br/>It was a realistically rough morning for Drake. He was just starting to come down enough from a high to realize that he had wasted his entire day, and what felt like his entire life. The unmotivated physics student had gone through two whiskey doubles from his private reserve. In addition, he had smoked two spliffs before noon, and he found himself hunched over a line of cocaine by about the same time as he ran out of weed. Half a pack of cigarettes were gone, is pot of coffee was half empty and cold. Drake hadn't even had breakfast yet. He had fought back tears for hours, slipping from his deadpan dining room table with nothing on it but an ashtray and his stained coffee mug, slipping to the comfort of his cool bedsheets, slipping to the chair at his desk where homework, personal journals, a bullshit 'memoir' and notes on a pornographic movie were all jumbled on top of his keyboard. The screen-saver on his desktop had been running for two days without interruption.<br/><br/>The mouse was unplugged.<br/><br/>Every door in the apartment was closed. Drake found himself sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, leaned against the foot of his bed in a pair of old jeans and a black t-shirt with the band name "Rites of Spring" slapped across the front in red lettering. He looked up from the dark corner of his palms. The world seemed a viscous place, the end of all means come for no judgement in his eyes. Drake was suicidal, but too unsure of himself to go through with it. Every morning felt like it would be the last cigarette, the last bowl of weed, the last bump, the last glass of whiskey, the first shower without a cloud of doubt and confused sexual energy afoot. It was always painted amber white, mostly plain with the idea of hope on the edge of his mind. Like fringe science, or quantum mechanics. Drake's livelihood was threatened in every second. And no one held the gavel, the jury was made of thirteen voices in his head, one plaintiff and an infinite number of defendants.<br/><br/>Apartment Number Eight was a brutal courtroom without a television, or a microwave.<br/><br/>The White Album was spinning on his Hi-Fi. The record had cost him Seventy-Five dollars in January of Two-Thousand and Eight. He did his best not to wear it out, but he listened to it, typically, two or three times a day. Now, the timbre of John Lennon's guitar was fading, during "Yer Blues", Drake could only hear the drums and the lyrics. It had made him more blissful then any caring voice. He didn't have many friends, and the ones he had started to leave him be when the love of his life had sent him packing. She had moved out of this same apartment two months before. All of his friends preferred her company, and they stopped answering calls about the same time that she had stopped texting his phone. "Yer Blues" was his favourite song, and he found the infinite distress of man within it's three minute run time.<br/><br/>He needed a new copy... the thought weighed heavy on his mind. Then he suddenly gave himself a goal, he wouldn't spend money on anything but rent and food until he had a new copy of the White Album, then he would allow himself another pack of Marlboro Reds, and a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels for celebration.<br/><br/>This idea shined a radiant light of peace on his mind. It was like a sign from God, a reason to go outside, 'A real god-damned reason to get up and move.'<br/><br/>So, Drake found his socks, and his shoes, and his sunglasses, and his wallet, and a cigarette or two rolled from old butts in the ashtray for the road. He didn't check the mirror, he had forgotten to shave or comb his hair. The smell of cigarettes lofted off of his skin, it was powerful enough to cover his breathe, in a high daze and lackadaisical estrangement, Drake had forgotten to brush his teeth in nearly a 36 hours. Finally, he put the last item, the keys to his apartment, in his coat pocket, and Drake left the ruins of his own life, stepping out of the door, and into the 4th level hallway, locking it behind him, and putting himself en route for the staircase.<br/><br/>His steps were odd, and disjointed, he limped with a swagger that came from illustrious apathy. Not only did Drake say 'fuck-it-all' to the concerns of life, but he had very solid rebuttals for anyone willing to defend the sanctity of love and happiness. He was a real downer these days, and with his sunglasses on inside, it was fairly obvious that he had no interest in playing 'Seinfeld' with his neighbours this afternoon.<br/>