Note To A Friend: Run

Hey Brotha, 

First and foremost, I hope your date went well last night. If it was anything like my night you ended up balls deep in a cuddle session sucking your thumb trying to repress eight year old tears and mild self hatred...stomach acid boils up and you dont know whether to run to the bathroom or just let it gurgle. You side with the latter and cross your right fingers for good luck since your left had is preoccupied by long hair sifting. All the while you really just want to flip her over and fuck like you used to with a bit of a post coital cry, which is inevitable.

I am sure your luck is not as bad as mine. I wish I could have carried on through this weekend not knowing at all that my high school sweetheart (as much as it pains me to use a cliche term) had broken up with her long-lasting boyfriend, and is essentially on the market again. It would have been easy to just not find out, drink excessively and hit on a random passerby at a local Boston establishment. Or even text a recent fling and ask her to "come by and watch a movie," with a harsh undertone that says "don't wear underpants." I wish I could continue to move onward with life, letting her and all the memories be simply that, a moment(s) in time, tucked into the sepia tone shoe box of love lost and love gained. I would like to say that I didn't say "I love you" under my breath. Gripping my vocal chords with a hypothetical straightjacket in order to repress any possibility of those words flourishing into action and dancing off my pallet like manic hopeless romantic punch drunk and high on epsom salts. Which, as a side note, are used by kids across the country by digesting or inhaling them into their system to produce a ridiculous high that mimics a zombie doing a comedy show. The zombie being the only one laughing at his jokes and then losing his mind and eating the crowd to death.

There was a lot of wishes and could have been's in that last paragraph. But, I did find out about their impending breakup and it immediately effected my mood, my demeanor, and my goals for that evening and the next 30-40 years. That's how it goes for good bad guys like us. We fall in love too quick, fall out of it even quicker, then we scrape at gravel trying to dig ourselves out of the hole of despair. We drink, and we smoke, and we ask ourselves how do we feel? We answer better, transgress to greener pastures, and into the next bottomless cocktail of overall romantic underachievement. The good news is we do it with style and panache. We smile at the right people, and earn the right amount of money to get by. Life aint that bad, but we are never really satisfied. There is always "the one that got away." And when you are able to get her in your grasp again, there is the other one that got away. I feel it is different with this one, the first love, first lover, and last piece of innocence. In part I want her to feel bad for taking that away from me, as I did to her. Maybe that's why I move aimlessly as I do now, stopping only briefly to attempt to be rational in thought, wholesome in love. 

I am attempting to get over this impossible hurdle and scorn myself in the fogged up mirror of my steaming hot bathroom I have a thought. I wipe my face down, clear the air, untie my tongue and depart the tiny vestibule of a room. The air is cooler outside and the drink is prevalent. I say fuck the towel walk down the hall ass naked, because really who cares? At this point I have the one thought that I usually do when something earth shattering like this happens: RUN. 

Where to? That is where you come in. It has been far too long since you and I have spent more than a night out on the town, and when we do it is in some of the WORST towns you can fathom. We discussed months ago about a trip to Copenhagen, and to California, Atlantic City, Netherlands. Honestly, I don't give two partial fucks by non human being or even a quarter shit from a calfs ass about where we go. As long as it is more than 1000 miles from my front door. Let's make like Hunter S. Thompson and pull the damn trigger. We don't have to shoot at anything but the feel that we get driving back the trigger of the 44 Magnum as it pushes our should uncontrollably away just makes my blood run to places I enjoy. 

Almost went on a ridiculous tangent there, but seriously lets plan something. My credit card has way too high of a limit and way too little of that limit used. Let's spread her wings (man I am fucking full of cliche comments today). 

LA?

Denmark/Sweden?

San Francisco?

St. Maarten?

Hawaai?

You be the judge, just tell me when and where and lets get on that plane, boat, bicycle or electric scooter and get on our merry way. Plus I am starting to get the "fear." 

We can talk about the fear on the trip. 

R