Post undergrad part 4

Everything from things as trivial as when he used a separate quote in two different stories in a Journalism class, from the time he made a Nina cry when he told he didn’t love her and was incapable of doing so. The guilt and unease circled through his brain, and he started to question the meaning of happiness.
He lay in the room, it was dark, and the movie was coming to a close. He had forgotten that he ordered pizza, and wondered when the hell it was going to be there. He looked at the clock. It was 2:45 in the morning, he had fallen asleep at some point.
“Damn,” Milton said to himself in a hazy mutter, “I coulda gone for that fucking pizza.”
His minds were clearer than hours previous, and he made a strong decision to lay off on the grass for the time being, it was doing no good for him. He noticed the red blinking of his cell phone and saw that he had two messages.
The first message was from his “editor,” who was in fact a family friend and could give a fuck less about anything he wrote, much less actually believe in the words that he was trying to express.
“Hello Milton, wondering how the writing’s coming along, I have lots of publishers lined up willing to read your work.”
Milton thought the suggestion absurd; she had never even read his fucking work.
Another message came from his father, the usual bullshit. His father was proud, misses him, etc.. In fact his father was too holed up in his girlfriend’s apartment and his financial woes to actually truly care what he had been up tp.
Milton felt uneasy, all he wanted was some comfort. He took a bottle of Beck’s and swigged it down fast, the cold metallic taste hitting curdling his stomach. He decided he would need something stronger.
He walked outside into the cold darkness, the streets were deserted, and he knew it would be awfully hard to get a cab. He made a call to his usual guy, Ritchie, who could him a drive down to South Boston where he could get a couple of Xanax.
The drive, though only 20 minutes, seemed long. Milton’s thoughts became no less negative, he was lonely, and confused, and felt as if he might be experiencing some sort of final stage of puberty. Everything was changing, except unlike the 12 year old woes of nocturnal dreams and pubic hair, he noticed it was the world and his life that was changing, while his body, and his soul, remained ever the same. They seemed to hit every street light on the drive, the yellow lights kept telling him to slow down, but he knew that that was exactly what he had been doing wrong. Speed limit read 35 mph, no one in this country drives at such absurd speeds, no baby we’re at 60 on the freeway at least, and fuck who ever thinks they can stop us, he thought. People don’t think, they just go, whether on green, yellow or red, but Milton, he wanted something else.