Look. I mean, seriously. I don't know how to tell you this. But for the past couple of days. Fuck. I mean. I've just been raving around my apartment like a lunatic. Like a fucking smack addict with no cash. Insane. Alone. And thinking way too fucking much for the borders of this skin. To break. All I keep thinking is that I can't take one more fucking nightmare moment. I can't watch one more person I love walk out on me for a joke or a lie or self-delusion or even a goddamned fucking place. (or for fucking skiing, for jesus sake.) And wouldn't it be easier to stay here in this world. With 5 doors and wooden floors and my own goddamned music collection? With my own friends. And family. Who wouldn't suddenly vanish from my life like a bad dream at the end of a super fucking disaster, anyway? Wouldn't that be fucking christ easier? To tear all your pictures down and erase you from my answer phone and digital picture albums. Tear all of our memories out of diaries with a pen knife and burn them in the kitchen sink. So I wouldn't have to think about dealing with the poisoned aftermath of trying to let go of them later? When you vanish. Or drive away. Or realize I'm not all-that-you-imagined-I'd-be-cracked-up-to-be. I'm way too good at fucking planning ahead. You see. And I know this story, already. Fall in love. Get happy. Get comfortable. Make plans. Share cell phones and shopping lists and bank accounts and body fluids. And then it all just ends up empty. You see? So, I won't make excuses. About why I've been shit the last couple of days. There's a lot to look forward to. You know? A lot of fucking blank pages and razor blades to get over. If you can fucking see what I mean.