Writing exercise/block killer2

Everything was blurry. He smiled big, silly, bared his fangs in pretense of 'ok'-ness. He was drunk again. The whiskey burning through his veins was 'ok'. Two of his friends hit the floor laughing hysterically. He was laughing. Nothing made sense. Nothing had to. And so it rode.
All around him, the vestiges of a good time and his..room was spinning. A pretty girl smiled at him as he stumbled by..or was that laughed at him? None of that mattered now. He felt as though, if he didn't make it into the cold air, his heart might burst.
Outside were a few small cliques. He gave an obligatory nod and lit up a smoke, staying close enough to not elicit a reaction, but not close enough that either party felt motivated to converse. The chill air brought him to more level-headedness. Not sober. Not going to purge, either.
He finished his cigarette and threw it. Somehow he was alone, hadn't even noticed everyone else leave. It was foggy, humid, and the moist air felt like a compression suit around his chest. He looked around, absorbing his surroundings. The world looked like a suspense movie. Were a horde of monsters to tear around the corner and approach, he wouldn't have been surprised in the slightest. He turned and walked to the house, pausing for one last glance before he opened the door.
The house was dark, empty. Piles of unidentifiable masses loomed, lazily menacing. He stumbled to what seemed like a bathroom, peed in a corner, and shuffled toward the only visible source of light. In his head the ambient noise of a party still droned on. He closed the fridge and entered the living room. Ghostly figures swept past him. The pretty girl smiled and wisped away. He rubbed his eyes. The room was brightly lit now and full of life. The suns warmth radiated golden on the plants in the window. Her plants. He rubbed again and it was night. The plants shone waxy in the moonlight. He fondled their leaves sadly. There was a wetness to them. He held a hand up to his face. Darkness. His tongue lashed out in a way some might describe as 'snakelike'. He tasted copper; pennies on his lips and tongue. Stepping closer to the window he found a spot of light and looked down. Blood. Everywhere. Covering everything. He gagged, swayed dizzily, and sputtered like a child.
She flipped the light switch and found him sobbing in front of the window.
She flipped the light switch. He looked up. The bulb shattered. His life shattered. He found his way to the doorway, ran through it, but felt himself yanked back roughly. He hit the floor hard. Through the pain her face slowly resolved. She smirked. He kissed her, fell through the floor, and quickly evaporated.

Smoke rose lazily, acrid and evil. The man peered into it, trying to find its soul. Failing that, he imagined how his face must look in the glow. Fresh-split logs crackled and popped. Little ash fireflies spiraled and danced for him. His stomach grumbled; empty. He considered howling at the moon, crying his existence, but was overtaken in a wash of self consciousness.
His food sizzled in its foil cocoon, its smell maddening him, salivating him. His orange hands stoked the fire, his lips made a silent prayer, and at that moment all was well. He was alive where previously he hadn't the desire. He was healthy tho he'd been sick. He was (by choice only) alone in the vastness of stone and water. He pulled his hood and hugged himself tighter, his back untouched by the warmth of his fire. HIS fire, which finally burned again. Crickets sung their maddening symphony and somewhere, in a directionless impossibility, an awl coo'd.
There was life everywhere and he was playing parasite; a vampire intruder suckling on freedom, intensity, and the way things should be. Out here was the path he never should have left behind. Out here was the great purge of the modern torment. A smile, an unheard echo.
She didn't cross his mind once.