For a Final Post: An Examination of Fake Love

I wrote this six months ago.  I like the writing, but I could care less about the content.

For any way I was wrong and not enough, I’d made concessions and complied and never wondered when you would call because I would call first.  I knew it was okay this way, with you.  And now I compare and can’t remember why you were so awful.

But I digress.  No, I concede.  I let you be how I remember you, which incidentally isn’t very well.  I love or am in some comparable mire.  I search for it again so I can relax and understand it’ll hurt this much with someone else and I didn’t let go of that torture in vain. 

I wish I had something better to say than anything about your uncomfortable dirty mattress, the dog, the dander, the grease like tar.  The hair adheres so I won’t forget you two.

Piss water beer, boxed wine, well whiskey.  I couldn’t care less.  I just want my off switch and, my parents’ money, dip my hand in the bees and compromise integrity for a tall, dirty, cheap drink.