The haze of what was the beginning of this year versus now drifts over my eyes like a fine wedding veil.
I have been courted by various predictions, some self-fulfilling, some told to. On Valentines Day, a friend of mine said to grow up and sleep with someone new when I told him the perils. I wanted it to be as easy as that. I needed to forget about old slacker rock and power pop sweet-things and coasts as love-letters and watching Matt Johnson canon with a person who thought of me as fundamentally lesser even when I was in love with them. We
1 communed in a speakeasy in the city and gorged ourselves raw on good dumplings and even better cocktails, we ate good, we spoke of good fortune.
Yes, I will stop talking to him. Yes, I will have better. I believed it when I spoke it. A parade of triumph as big as the American ego. On the train home, bleary-eyed, I stared at my Notes app. The entrails of the night as a tapestry of billowing, unseemly text, a Bleachers-style mantra:
I LOVE MY STUPID LIFE BUT IVE GOTTA STOP WASTING IT!
footnotes
1. me and my friend, savage-good-boy
