First of all, you are a fucking moron. Excuse my lacking sensitivity but if that's what you're looking for, you could always wrangle up one of your California pussies to weep to. I lack patience.
So you fell in love. You fell in love in 6 weeks? No, wait, sorry -- 4 weeks into it, you tell this girl that you love her. What the fuck are you thinking, man? Do you realize how long 4 weeks is? I was kicked out of Princeton in 4 weeks. Remember that? No, you probably don't because you didn't know me then. But even if you did know me, you wouldn't remember and you want to know why, because I was only there for 4 fucking weeks! Wrap your head around it.
Now, I don't want to be an asshole and put words in your mouth. So, what I'm going to do is quote you, thus letting you speak for yourself and then piss all over everything you're saying. Let us begin.
"We had a lunch today that began with a heavy kiss and ended with her gift-giving and a heavy goodbye. She drove away and I didn't watch -- some kind of conquering perception of mind -- my illusion of strength disallowed it. I opened the gate and had to stop. I felt light, like something was pouring from the soles in my feet, bleeding out into the concrete -- this force vacating my body, instantly replaced by another force, something heavy and daunting, a familiar thing to me."
A kiss? You ended with a kiss? Really? So this girl cracks your fragile heart and doesn't at least have the decency to dish out a break fuck? Obviously your head is shit. Obviously, you're midway through one of your epic spirals, trying to talk your way through it, saying things like, "I'm gonna bury myself now, Kim and Val, Kim and Val. Work, work, work. Fuck the world, better alone, better alone, better alone." Asshole, you always say it in threes. And you'll get bitter and distant and fucking sensational. Your hatred for the everyday man'll come back in roaring waves. I like you dark. You're more interesting that way so let me help. You'll probably never find another one like her(6 weeks), you'll likely never love again(6 weeks), you'll never get hard for another woman(6 fucking weeks!). She won, every sense of the word. But I'll bet that if she spent time blogging the shit she was going through, no way she can write like that. Who can? You obviously have that on her -- what else matters?
Time for the speed round:
"I remember the world disappearing -- inside her -- I can't. Too much."
Know what, I was going to go off on that. Then, I Googled the bitch again. Sorry, don't mean to call her a bitch, I'm sure she isn't - you speak highly -- but again, you're a fucking moron. She injured my boy. Fuck her. Anyway, her pics...yeah, I'd get lost inside that too. Confession -- I may have already.
"This great competence I praise in myself often fails."
I'm too lazy to even find a synonym for fucking moron. Have I mentioned the 6 week thing yet. Bag 'em and tag 'em. Self investment is the only play. These aren't difficult concepts.
"It's not an easy thing to do -- to let it go, when you want to fight for something you can't fight for."
Shoulda fucked her one last time. That's raw, her non compliance. I don't blame you for aching. But think about this, she ain't fighting nothing. Remember all the stories you'd tell, washing failed flames away, and freedom and breaking free and they'd cry and fight and all you wanted to do was wash them clean, move onward, move upward. Name of the game is cut and run and you played it better than anyone. Tables turn. She's their revenge. Eat it. Tastes like shit but enjoy it. I'd tell you to go out and find another but you'll go off on one of your ridiculous shit spews, devaluing what you deem to be, "heartless, recreational fucks." You'll tell me about how you rarely fall, that these things don't work for you and I'll god damn puke and I don't need to god damn puke right now. Recreational fucks power the world. They do.
"I feel like this girl pulled 2-3 songs out of me. 2-3 songs that at any given moment could have cured all that ails and ailed. Now that she's gone, they're gone. They're lost. And I'll never know. I'm worried a night will come and the thought wont let me sleep, maybe for weeks. Maybe I worry too much."
Jesus Christ -- and I don't even believe in the fucker. Can I ask you a question? Do you even know what you're talking about? Okay, that's a bad question. I know you know. And I get it dude, I do. Or, actually, I don't, but I know you enough to pretend like I know, and that I get it. I just see you down, I hear you down and I can feel it, and it ain't right.
I read your shit right now and I thought back - that night I met you in London. I think you were on your way back to Chicago and you told me to come meet you in the airport, in Heathrow. They wouldn't let me in the terminal, and I had to buy a fucking ticket to Berlin but I met you in that bar and we drank Guinness and Patron the entire night and got so drunk. They closed the bar and we had to wait outside gate 16 for your flight and had another 7 some hours to go. I had already picked up a gallon of JD at duty free for no reason and we sipped on it and listened to your I-Pod on that shitty carpeting. Everyone passed us, suspicious. You started talking about this feeling you had, that nothing had come like it recently - that it was this calm, like you trusted your way in the world for the first time in your life. Not surprisingly, I hadn't the clue what you were speaking. You reached out to your I-Pod, changed the song - Modest Mouse's "Trailer Trash." And you said, "It feels like this." And we sat there and listened, passed the bottle back and fourth. You had this look in your eye and I felt like I understood. I fucking got it, even if it was only for that second. That was the moment I began to envy you. First man ever. And I may never stop, even when you're a fucking moron, like now.
Let her go. You'll be fine. You'll always be fine. You're the fucking Burn, man. The fucking Burn.
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