I’m so. Fucked up. Right now.

The more urban it gets, the more blurry, the more colorful, the more initials and less descriptive. Oh man I love every second of this.

Things blur in. Blur out. It’s like staring through a caleidoscope. A pair of tits staring me in my, dilated, blown-out, strung-out eyes. Then they fade and we dance for a few hours and I turn into a fucking waterfall by the time I even realise I start sweating. It all whirls into the bathroom and I don’t ask for her name when she unzips my fly and starts keying her number on my phone and she’s got the perfect pair of breasts man, I mean, alright, she looks like she’s maybe five years older than me but about five million times hotter than anything I ever hit.

And while she’s down there, vacuuming my soul through her narrowing lips I’m thinking: “I really should stop doing this shit.”

I’m getting blown in a really uncomfortable club bathroom and all I can think of is an inventory of everything I did in the past three hours. I’m smiling – no – grinning- but beneath my grin I’m actually clenching my teeth really tightly. And sure, that’s because of the happy pills I took but it’s mostly because I’m really, really dissapointed in myself.

I’m getting waves and waves of heat and I cum all over her face and I’m laughing like a maniac and you can picture it – eyes blown out of their orbits,  and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, followed abruptly by the absolute worst loneliness and despair you can picture. Which is why, as she’s wiping away the thick, white cream decorating her face with the back of her hand, she finds the process eased by warm drips falling from above.

I’m crying. I’m really crying, and cackling with a grotesque bass and I feel like the loneliest, most broken thing in the world, until she holds me really close and my rythmic dementia gets silenced by her almost maternal shush.

“Everything is all right.”

“No, you don’t get it. It’s not all right. I don’t even know who you are.”

I swallow a bulge of nausea and I go on:

“–but I need you. I really really really do. Because without you I feel like I’m back in my childhood when my mom wasn’t there. Or back in my afterteens, when the girl I put four years and everything I thought I meant wasn’t there and she was just falling for that douche with perfect gums and a perfect body and a perfect life working on the perfect Porsche. I’m the most pathetic form of life ever to have lived on this planet, no wonder everyone dumps me for the perfect fix of a perfect life. I mean, what can I offer? A few cheap thrills, a few E pills, but after the smoke clears out, I’m a broken twenty-three year old sharing a flat with four other people who despise me and think I’m a wreck. Because I am.

I’m damaged goods, probably beyond repair, and that’s probably why I need you so much right now. Because in a half an hour, when I get home and shower and start putting this shit up on the Internet for all the world to see how absolutely gigantic a failure I am, I’ll still think that I could have fallen in love in a dirty club bathroom with a girl who’s name I didn’t even get. Knowing that, much like every other woman before her, she just wiped her mouth and vanished as soon as something better came along.”

I’m really really tired and I let her go and I rush out and I get into a cab and I get home and start typing away, knowing that all I have to look forward to is a succession of being held tightly then abandoned.

But hell, at least I’m smiling through all of this. Really. Because the truth is, I wasn’t ever owed anything. “Man up” I tell myself “there’s nothing wrong with being alone. Everybody is.”