January 15, 2012 § Leave a comment

My poor dear friend she calls me, she comes over here, and her face is all smashed up like the way you see in movies, and like the way  you see in movies, I get my macho up and I want to kill him. Whoever did this, whoever, wherever oh, he’s getting killed.

And my poor dear friend, she says, “no,

you don’t get it.

you don’t know.

it isn’t what you think.”

And that part, well, at first I think, that part is just so typical. Poor dear friends everywhere always say that part, but then that part, well, then I think that part is too much like a bad movie, so I start to listen. And she’s telling me about

crazy, stalking, fueled by whatever it is love does to fuck us up,

and her face got like that because she smashed up his car, and she’s small and she’s shaking, and I remember every conversation I’ve ever had with some guy friend about crazy broads going mental, how we whistled soft through our teeth and made “that bitch be craaaaaaazy” jokes in between swallows of scotch.

But this is my poor, dear friend, and she’s beat to fuck by her own goddam heart, and she’s not what we meant, she’s just not. And she says to me,

“the worst part is”

and there are so many worst parts that there could be. There’s the busted up car that’s going to cost, there’s maybe the police, there’s her face full of cuts, there’s a cool woman about to spend months making late night texts to some guy, and there’s how she’s going to be impossible to listen to for the next however many months it takes to get over him.

“the worst part is, he’s probably not going to take me back.”

I run her a bath, make her a cup of tea, drain the glass of scotch I passed out before I could get to the night before, and I wash her hair for her, the way you’d wash an old woman’s hair when her memory is starting to slip and you can still remember her as vibrant, but you can’t see any of it now.

“What did you do last night?”, she tries to change the subject, tries to show that it’s not all about her.

I tell her how last night I stayed in. I wrote some, ate popcorn, watched a shitty television program simply because it starred someone I don’t like, and I wanted more reasons not to like him. I got drunk alone, stumbled around, woke up on the bathroom floor, and climbed into bed.

And my poor, dear friend, she says that we really need to find me a boyfriend. Hell, maybe she’s right. It’s been a while since I did anything really stupid.


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