Title Track

It wasn’t all that bad. I mean, not like it was good, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I don’t think I even cried. I mostly just sat there, reading a rereading his terrible handwriting.

Someday you will be loved.

I may or may not have analyzed each swoop and line of each letter to see if he was coming back.

When I woke up that morning, I was ready to walk into the kitchen and see him standing impatiently next to the toaster, like he always did.

Instead, I woke up to a piece of paper.

I mean, it was probably for the better. If I’d woken up to packed bags, I probably would have lost it.

It was better. With the paper.

Everyone asked me if I was okay. Everyone. Everyday.

There were phone calls, constantly, “Brendon, do you need anything? Anything at all?”

“No, I’m fine. If I need anything, I’ll call.”

It feels like so long ago.

Two years of that can take a lot out of you, but I think it’s better than moving on.

So now I’m sitting in a shitty club, drinking a five dollar beer that’s only worth two, and reminiscing.

It’s not like I didn’t fuck anyone after he left, of course I did. But I didn’t actually move on.

I suppose now more than ever I’ve started coming to terms with how much I resent Ryan.

Which would explain my being in this shitty dive with an overpriced beer.

I cannot stress how overpriced this shitty beer is.

So, maybe I’ll go dance with some strangers, get some action in the handicapped stall, and give them a fake phone number, or maybe I’ll call a cab, go home, and fall asleep halfway through the Colbert Report.

I’m leaning towards the latter.