![]() ![]() Sometimes I drank just to have the sheer pleasure of weeping without apology, the luxurious, snotty weeping of childhood that can only be indulged, once you’re grown-up, in the most solemn states of privacy. The focus game was really just a kind of exercise in cleaving my mind from my body and floating away, with none of the “mindfulness” or “control” that the drama teacher pinned to my accomplishment when I was eventually invited to pull myself up from my prone position on the floor. The faces and wipers were there, but I wasn’t entirely certain I was. I acquired a reputation as “focused”, but it occurred to me that afternoon in the bathrooms that what I felt on the floor staring at the ceiling was more like dissociation than focus. ![]() I recalled that in high school drama classes we would sometimes play games of “focus”, in which the winner was the girl who could lie on the floor and stare at one place on the ceiling without giving in to the distractions of the other girls pulling faces and whispering dirty jokes above her. ![]()
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