Life becomes one distraction after another.
I feel like I’ve lived a million lives since the days of living in the proverbial closet in high school.
We only became friends because whenever he was around, the drugs were free. I have absolutely no idea what he’s like when he’s sober.
The relationship gave off the air of what I assume is teenage love even though I was in my early 20s and he had just landed in his 30s.
It was a sunny, spring, responsibility-free Saturday afternoon — one of those beautiful days that was made for future nostalgia to treasure.
Friday. A palpable sigh of relief. A day of celebration for making it through the week without murdering anyone.
The site consisted of crass dishonesty, but so did everything else in life.
Alienating people became the first thing I was successful at in a long time.
Before I felt comfortable with my positioning on the Kinsey scale, I was dishonest with myself too, because the truth hurts and consonants and vowels can bruise just as easily as sticks and stones.
I was the last person to see him as he fell into that warmth. I feel like I was the last person to ever truly see him alive.