I'll always try to remember I was there, if only for the sake of argument.

It’s the cruelest of cruelties, to hope that even someone as worthless as me can share an orange sky moment with someone else, so complementarily pure. That even below the beastlies of natures, Nature can shape a smile in the dirt. That something she says is so wrong can feel so right?
Of course it’s cruel, it’s so cruel I pour a glass of alcohol on top of an already full one, drowning the table and miraculously not shortcircuiting this keyboard into a mass of useless plastic. The fact that I’m not getting bolted could mean, to a more troubled mind (or my admittedly drunken one) that there’s a string of fate, or something similarly stupid.
If there’s somekind of a God, I figure, he wants me to write this. He can also suck my dick, here and now, at this crossroads of the infinite flesh failures.
It feels as if were yesterday when we were reciting poetry to one another and grinning in the car, or tumbling in the sand or crushing our oh-so-different skins against one another. The time since we last kissed or made out or she told me how she was born with this great need for affection and giving affection, it’s compressed and crushed into nothingness by the severals gallons of booze, tears and lost memories I call last night.
Because you see, I was almost there. I was so close to feeling OK, I felt OK in anticipation.

And that’s just stupid. My friend Dan asks me, while he’s picking up the laundry:
“How long has it been since you last heard from her?”
“Two days.”
“And you actually think you can lose a girl forever in just two days?”
I retort retardedly, shaking a glass of wine like it wasn’t filled to the brim with sulphites:
“No you dumbass, it just takes an instant.”
And then I drink. And I pour another one, dissolving my short term memory as well as my emotions and I feel barren and I forget everything until I get dragged into another “friends-want-to-fix-you-but-they-can’t” conversation:

Lexy: Do you really think alcohol can solve your issues?
Me: It’s not meant to solve them, it’s meant to eclipse them.

And it does. Every time I see the IKEA label shaped by the glass flux draining into my open mouth, I think to myself:
“Shit. I need more.”
So it’s about two bottles now, and counting. I’m surprised I can spell, then again I arrogantly submit to myself that shit – I probably have more of a clever, dry brain in this state than most of you have while sober. So fuck you. And then I pour more, because really, until you pass out, you’re still going to feel pain, if only a little.

All I can do at this pitfall in time is close my eyes and picture her delicate features, sad, catlike eyes and heartshaped lips and fool myself that she’s somewhere out there and that it’s OK if I stay away and things are OK for her. How much of an asshole would I be to try to pull her into this maelstrom of misery? I’d be like everyone else then.

Because really, when I think of planet Earth, and if, hipothetically, assholes could fly, the whole planet would be one big fucking airport.

I try to call her, but I can’t. Partly because I just dropped my phone in the toilet bowl, and partly because I can’t even dial her number and partly because I think of how lame the upcoming conversation would be. But mostly because I realise that by now, she associates me with everything that is bad and wrong about the human race. And there’s plenty. It’s guys that me that make it so hard for guys like you to get laid with sensitive girls. They just lost their faith in guys altogether.

You’re welcome.

But no, really, if it’s any consolation, you should know that I’m not indifferent to things. In fact, I swear it, by this fine cheap wine I’m about to drown myself in, we are not soulless. People like me get the first blood in the skirmish.

People like me bleed too. It’s just that people like me, much like people like you, don’t like to bleed. The difference is that while people like you stop the hemmorhage with bandages, antibiotics and the caring arms of their loved ones, people like me call a shady dealer, like I’m doing now, phone freshly pulled out of a piss-filled toilet bowl and carefully dried with an electric hairdrier, and moan:
“I need something.”
“Sure man. What can I help you with?”
“Nothing less than watermelon will cut it.”
And by watermelon we mean the warmest blanket in the world. The hardest aenesthetic the streets will give you. The big H. Morphine diacetate. Intravenously numbing to those hard of mind and weak of spirit, like myself.
I will henceforth medicate myself against the blunt realisation that I fell in love with the perfect girl and then lost her.