No matter how chaotic life is, no matter what is going on, Mean-Jeans and Justin Moore religiously show up to Sunday brunch at their spot in TriBeCa at 10 AM. Mean-Jeans had left some man’s place from her sexcapade the night before on this particular day. Her makeup is smudged, she is wearing a tight, short black dress that hugs her curves and reveals most of her cleavage. She is in a particularly bad mood because the man–whatever his name was, she cannot quite recall–had been asking what her real name was. It can’t REALLY be Mean-Jeans, can it?! She has long since abandoned her prior identity. Ever since Mean-Jeans joined the music industry, she discarded the woman who is named Eugene Moore. Eugene Moore was a depressed cocaine addict. Mean-Jeans, still a cocaine addict, is a successful rockstar, the lead singer and guitarist for Walmart Brand Nirvana. Names have power like that. Eugene Moore is a lonely woman without success, but Mean-Jeans? She has friends, a life, fame, and so much more to mask the ugly face of depression.
On this particular day, Justin is running late. Mean-Jeans checks her watch, waiting impatiently at the table, adjusting her sunglasses in the bright, somewhat chaotic room. If she could make it on time, even having gotten out of rehab the day before and partying soon after, then he could definitely make it on time, straight-and-narrow life and all. Finally, he walks in, dodging a waitress balancing plates of french toast, a breakfast burrito, and several menus. He spots Mean-Jeans immediately by her electric blue wig and makes his way over, grabbing a menu. Mean-Jeans cannot help but grin at the sight of her brother even despite his tardiness. He is not grinning back when he sees her morning-after party outfit.
“Gene? Did you use last night? Be fucking honest with me because I will find out one way or another, even if it’s through a goddamn clickbait article” he says. Mean-Jeans is quiet. “God fucking damnit!” he whispers louder than he had intended, sitting down with his head in his hands.
“I’m not ready yet,” Mean-Jeans says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not about you being ready. It’s about you being alive. You know that there’s a fentanyl crisis these days?”
“I almost died twice, I can make it a third time,” Mean-Jeans says earnestly. “I have a gift for that sort of thing.” Justin is quiet because he knows all about the futility of talking someone out of chasing oblivion.
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