What you did to me makes me want to cry. Especially when I’m drunk. And I want you to know that. I want you to know how terrible you make me feel, through your selfish, thoughtless actions. I can still feel your hands around my throat.
Alcohol is great. It gives me confidence. Everyone is my friend, a potential friend. Do I have a lighter, sure I do. I mean, what a great way to pull, lighting your throatful of sambuca on fire. And dancing.
I see, really, truly, only men. I mean, I see women, lots of them, and they see me. But right now, it is only men. I single him out, my target. He has one of those long-sleeve t-shirts with a white torso, and dark sleeves attached at a diagonal. You know what I mean. There must be a name for that type of top. And his stomach sticks out a little, in a cute way, not a fat way. And he has a little goatee.
But I am not fast enough. There’s no time for waiting around in this game. No, she got there first. But that is ok. Because everyone is my friend. Everyone. And it feels good. And I’m happy. Sort of. Or at least drunk enough to not feel sad.
Red wine. Jamaica beer. Tequila. Sambuca. Rum. Hiccups. Rum has given me hiccups.
The decision to leave is one that acknowledges that I don’t have to pull every single time I go out. And it is such a long walk home.
I can’t afford the time or the money really. Especially not the money. But I pay it, because it means for a few hours I can forget everything, especially you.
Let’s assume I were never to get over you. What would happen then? Does that thought concern you, because it does me.
I fell in lust with you, you heartless woman, and that’s just how it is.
I am now, a different person, because of you, and everything that happened. Your strangle-hold, still grips, tightly. But it must be good. It must be a good thing. Because I know who I am now, more than I ever did before.
Who I am, I am a mess. The mess you made and didn’t tidy up. And I will be forever laughing at my lack of responsibility, for me, for myself.
You realise as you get older, parents are just people. They don’t know what they’re doing, nobody does.
And you, especially, had no idea what you were doing. You’re just an idiot. Who made someone else cry. And I must be sick in the head because I really wish I could make you cry too.