Oh. Well, that was a bad idea.
Another stretch of sleeplessness. I do it to myself. Force myself to keep going. To have more. Take more. Do more. More. More.
That sort of indulgence... Guided destruction. Goddamn. I see what I'm doing.
I'm writing to that fucking song and not reading anything into it.
I'm in a bar I frequent. The bartender and I get along. We understand each other, I think. I came there early in the night and as I walked up I realized too late you were there. (Fuck you, then.) Ignore. Breeze by.
"Booze me," I say to the bartender, who is outside and not doing his goddamn job, charmingly.
"Hang out outside," he says.
"No."
I go in. Find a seat no one will ever see. My headphones are missing but I have a notebook and a pen and I think that that is good enough.
I sit. Write. The bartender comes in. Slaps me on the shoulder.
"What do you want? A drink?"
"Please," I say.
"Wine?"
"Sure."
He fills a large glass to the brim. He knows I've been trouble lately and we talk about it briefly. I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed. I feel the weight of sleeplessness. Of the self imposed isolation.
Fuck you, then.
Drink.
I have a fight coming later and I'm not sure if I should be concerned. Maybe. Maybe I should. I'll get into it and see how I feel then.
Elle and I...
Well, no.
Last night I got drunk. More drunk. More than normal. Drank a few bottles of wine. Came to this bar. Drank another. A few shots. Beer. An hour or so and the day (fuck you, then) disappeared. Got into trouble and eventually a girl that Elle and I saw briefly a few months back messaged me. Wanted to hang out again. I thought it odd but I was drunk and I tend to follow the wind when I am.
"Yeah, we'll swing over. Elle is at work. Message her."
FUCK YOU, THEN.
A minute or so later I left and walked to the girls house. It was cold and I was bored.
Arrive. Elle messaged me and told me she was hurt that I was there and I played it off. No. I ignored it because I have been losing my emotions. She doesn't believe me when I say that, but I think she might now because
She came but didn't want to stay.
She stayed but didn't want to fuck.
She fucked but didn't want to sleep.
She didn't. Stared at the ceiling. Sometimes at me.
I never helped. I watched her drain into this and that is the person I am.
Let's
Get
To
The
Bottom.
Fucked.
Slept less than an hour, if I did at all.
Now drinking since noon.
Here at this fucking bar. Don't want to go home. Ever.
Been thinking about going to Florida.
Might go to Florida.
Fuck you, then.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck me. I need a drink.
I need...
I need a reason to... anything.
Stay here. Drink more. Go home. Wander. Fight that fucking piece of shit. Ignore whoever he is. Ignore you. I need a reason.
I don't have one. I sit and drink.
An hour. I'm getting loud. A fire is lit. Asa is here. Fuck. I'm going to start a fight.
Good. I think I need to start a fight. You fuck.
You are avoiding coming in here. Just like I am avoiding going out there.
Fuck you, then.
Poor Elle, sincerely.
"What are you writing?" a guy near me asks.
"I don't fucking know. The narrative." I drink.
"The narrative?"
Drink more. Breathe. "You know," I say. "If someone was narrating your life. The threads. The themes. The important bits. Your life. How would that read?"
"Boring, probably," he says. "Boring and sad."
"Well, fucking... there you go."
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