Can you hang on? My nose is bleeding.
Why is it bleeding?
It won’t stop, hang on a sec. I’m gonna put down the phone.
Annoyed. Irritated. Mad. Tired. Talking to a multi-tasking friend. Clever, because I brush my teeth while talking on the phone. She does coke. She wins. Snorting and lamenting once again about a break-up that has been done twice over and so far gone that reviving it again is like talking about a ghost of something. A ghost of a ghost.
What changes since high school? Coors Light to bad pot. Pot to pills. Pills to bloody noses. Too tired, I say. Call me when you’re sober.
Obsessive personalities and break-ups: a mix ready to make anyone vomit. Quite possibly a mix to make someone die. The passion that you feel is not passion at all. It’s feeling like you’re invincible and feeling like you’re dead. Obsession is no passion equation. I’ll take boring over that anyday.
Desperate phone calls and blood-stained Kleenex. Suicide-laced texts. Is this the 21st century version of the bad first novel? Is this what life has always been leading up to? Is this the reality that barely fazes me becomes it seems rehearsed?
I gave you two choices from day one: love and be loved. Daily you chose none and now I’m not surprised at what it’s become. Done, love, done.
