I think you had to run because you figured out that I always knew much more than I ever let on. I always knew that you lied just as much as I did. I just didn’t rub your nose in it.
I have this reputation that I frequently remember but wish I could not because I am not proud of it. I earned this name because my loose lipped brother decided to brag about something I do that just comes naturally. Then, the little shit has the audacity to say that I am not living up to my name when I am lacking a new partner every night. Well, I am sorry that I do not look forward to fucking a different woman from the bar seven nights a week. I apologize for craving substance and conversation that extends beyond the mundane actions of the day. Sue me for wanting to talk about everything and nothing at the same time be it hypothetical and completely nonsensical based loosely on a what-if someone might have asked me in the third grade.
I do not feel bad for wanting someone like her; for I do not want her, but I do want someone that can make me feel the way she always could. It would be a plus if this mystery lady would reciprocate the feelings and actions that I would undoubtedly bestow on her. Unlike she, whom I have been pining for due to lack of a worthy replacement.
It could be viewed as pathetic the way I revere her still. Though I do not believe such things, I do understand where one would so judge. Call it a setting of the bar. She should not have to apologize for raising my standards to such a dismal level. Though it isn’t necessarily who she is or what she looks like that keeps me where I am, it is what she made me feel initially, or early on I should say, that cements me in this “tropical depression.” I equate it to an addict chasing a high. After a while the drug begins to matter less and less and only the high that the addict cannot admit is unattainable is left.
One (of several) great things about this perpetual state of heartbreaking nostalgia is that my creativity has exploded and my writing vividly displays it. However, this “tropical depression” begins with pride in the vast positive changes that have occurred in me (i.e. writing) and ends with remembering what I had to lose to get here (i.e. a critic). Many will say that I am too hung up on the past. This may be true, but I like where it keeps me for she has become my textbook to learn many lessons.
Everything she was to me, I’ll never be able to replace. She was my roller, my proofreader, my critic, my gamer, my drinker, my talker, my gossiper, my germaphobe, my converser, my dreamer, my socialite, my muse, my love, my life.
I’ve never been good with goodbyes. I’ve never been good with letting go. I understand that she had to do it like a band-aid, but the pain for those few seconds after the band-aid is gone can feel like a lifetime. I would know.