I write to you now from my living room, staring out a crystalline lake reflecting an orange sky almost perfectly. Miami's sleepless glow looms in the background. It's quite beautiful actually. The fan above me is creaky, and the radio is on. The occasional mosquito is drawn to the bright whiteness of E2's scratch pads page illuminated quite well on this laptop. That'll get annoying.
I write to you now because I feel the need to talk to someone; someone who will listen and not interrupt, someone who isn't analyzing every sentence I speak to figure out what I "really mean", someone on the same page as myself when it comes to writing, someone intelligent. Be proud I thought of you.
I write to you now to tell of the day I've had, and the night I'm having. There's a girl involved. Go figure, I rarely find the need to write when there isn't. I woke up to the sound of a good friend saying bye as he left my house. He slept on my mattress, next to the girl who decided to spend the weekend at my house. I slept on the couch. This is the result of an awful large amount of Captain Morgan, with the occasional shot of vodka, and a good amount of beer. Needless to say, last night was pretty good. I remember being angry, a good friend shouldn't be hitting on a girl staying at my house, let alone sleeping with her in my bed. I couldn't stop it from happening, she isn't my "girlfriend" and I was too drunk to kick them out of my room. In honesty I passed out on the couch of my own accord; I simply didn't want to think about who was in my bed. Regardless, my "friend" left and woke me on his way out. This house was a mess. She cleaned up for me at least.
I write to you now to tell of betrayal, or at least the feeling of betrayal. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness. I pour it all into this keyboard, and the keyboard doesn't judge me. It doesn't scold me for being stupid, and it doesn't remind me how "she's not YOUR girl" and "you would do the same thing". It doesn't laugh at me for being such a tool, and it doesn't pretend to sympathize just so I'll shut up. It doesn't flirt with me and say "It was nothing" or rest it's head on my shoulder to make me feel better. It doesn't dismiss me. It just sits here. Waiting for me to continue.
I write to you now to tell you about the gargantuan hangover I suffered from this morning. Nothing a coffee and a pack of smokes couldn't cure, but it was still bad. I don't drink as much as I used to, I get very angry at people around me when I do. There have been several occasions that involved a lot of screaming, a lot of telling it how it is, and a lot of subsequent crying. I don't lie, but the truth hurts. The day progressed. She decided to stay the remainder of the weekend, but we didn't go out tonight. She's doing her own thing, and I'm doing mine. This is it. A night of disappointment, following a day of pain, physical and emotional. I know guys aren't supposed to feel emotional pain, but we do. I try not to show it, so I write. I don't know how others get it all out.
I write to you now to bitch and moan. I should be out with a beautiful girl and her friends. I should be drunk, or at least high. I should be happy and she should want me by now. We should be driving back from a club, with her in the passenger seat, telling me how fucked up she is. This should be easy. It's all wrong though. It's not that bad, but I hate being alone right now. So I write to you. And the radio goes on, and the fan continues to creak, and Miami still looms beyond the tree line and I still sit here. Betrayed, disappointed and very lonely.
Thank you.