Yes, drunk. Some irishman offered me a pour of goldschlager and I took it. And he poured. And poured. And poured. I think I took on 8 shots at once. It was like a twenty second pour.
Ow.
And I'm drunk. And alone. Because you're honest when you're drunk, right, and honesty says that I love the people I trust so much more than they deserve and could give a fuck about everyone else... hot or not.
So. I miss Laura right now. Enough to go look at her myspace and note that I am nowhere to be found. That I am but her dirty little secret from three summers ago, a footnote in the great expanse of life, the google cache, and the universe.
I'm ok with that. But I still miss her.
Tear.
I miss Presh, too, even as I acknowledge that there's nothing to miss.
With either of them. They were nothing except some fanciful nightmare of dream trapped within my own head.
...says the hurting sensitivity of all that is Alfie to himself in hopes that he'll believe.
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