Get rich quick through pain and suffering.

It’s 1:27 a.m.; I have to get up for work in three and a half hours.

I can’t sleep.

I’m too busy thinking about Chris and Amber. Yes. That Amber.


You broke my trust and I know I broke yours. If someone were to randomly ask me if I thought you loved me, I might say yes, of course; if I were to be asked again two minutes later, I might say, maybe not, I don’t know. I can’t tell these days. It’s not entirely (if at all) your fault, I know. So many circumstances beyond of our control. And I really, really can’t tell the difference between my neurosis and fact. Which is nothing new.

And if the answer turned out to be no, I know I will break in half, split open and fall apart, just like the last three times I loved someone who changed their mind. And like I’ve told myself before — after so many times being torn open and scarring over again, you’d think it would hurt less. Amber. Allison. Allison again. Rachel.

You would think. But, no. Fresh hurt, every time.

Haven Kimmel said about drugs, the first time is the purest. Every time after that is just nostalgia.

Heartbreak, on the other hand — it hurts. It keeps hurting, continues hurting, finds new ways to hurt. Everything hurts. I should find out the source of that fuel, that persistent renewal and distill it, use it to create a new drug that never stands a chance against tolerance. I’d be fucking rolling. Big. Pimping.

But even so. Even if the answer is yes — the fact remains; we both have the same fatal flaw: we’re going to fuck whomever we want to fuck, consequences be damned.

Damaged goods aren’t nearly as functional or valuable. Eventually I won’t even want to love anymore. Eventually even if I wanted to, I’d forget how.

Wait. Wait. Just wait. October. Answers will be here in October. But October isn’t Godot. Answers are an abstract — just an acknowledgment of consequences — the double jeopardy round of real life. October will eventually come and go, and somehow I’m pretty sure I’m still going to wind up stranded.


Really? Seven, eight years? Now? Now I find out that you loved me then, and despite

fucking everything

that’s telling me to run, your charm is in my skin; even after two nights, and I want to hold your body close to mine and kiss your neck and know your taste. I am so fucked up right now Bam Bam, you don’t even know — if only because I’ve been working so hard to keep you from knowing.

Who are you? What do you want from me?

You’re a goddamn, dangerously volatile, intriguing, magnetic disaster. I’m going to apologize in advance, but surely you’ll understand — I’m going to keep you at a distance. I am not going to let you crawl inside of me again. Or not for a long, long while at least. Because frankly, I can’t swear that I’ll be able to resist you.

You are a miracle, but that is not all.
You are also a stiff drink, and I am on call.
You are a party and I am a school night.
I’ve lost my door key, but you are my porch light.

You’ll never know dear, just how much I loved you;
You’ll probably think this was just one big excuse.
But I stand committed to a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you is but one of my truths.


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