Don't ever fall in love with someone who is reckless. Don't ever fall in love with someone who acts without thinking, who spends all of their money in one place, who has a lot of dreams, but no ambition. Don't ever fall in love with someone dangerous. Don't ever make that someone your everything, your end-all-be-all, your present and your future. Don't ever fall hard and fast. Chances are, if they're reckless with themselves, they'll be even more reckless with someone else.

Boys on motorcycles wearing leather jackets should have a blinking sign over their heads that read "AVOID".

"My recruit ceremony is tomorrow."

I hate getting reminds of my reckless past. I hate messages and letters and phone calls from boys with failing livers and impulsive brains. I hate hearing from them, I hate their voices. I'd much rather watch from afar and make snide, spiteful comments about their lack of intelligence and practicality.

"Good job."

It's easier to be supportive of something you are against when you don't really care about the person. I can't care about someone as dangerous as a natural disaster. It's bad for me.

"My life starts tomorrow."

It'll end soon enough, too. I guess differing mentalities about controversial subjects are never a good thing to deal with when in something that could be described as a "serious relationship". I've never been supportive of young people joining such a violent and risk lifestyle (such as the armed forces) because I am an anxious and cautious person. I think things through. That's more than I can say for some people.

"Yeah. You'll be doing more in one day than most people do their whole lives."

Cliche bullshit. It's my speciality. I'm a writer, not a person who can deal with their emotions in a mature fashion. It's bullshit that amps up the ego of the person who already thinks they're wonderful and invincible. But - let's be honest here - what else am I supposed to say?

"Holy shit, I'm nervous."

Yeah, as you should be. You could've stayed home and with me, and I would've taken are of you for the rest of your life. You could've had breakfast in the morning and dinner at night, and backrubs and constant "I love you"'s. You could've had new clothes and new things and a car and a dog and clothesline with me. You could've, would've, should've, didn't.

"Don't be, you'll do fine."

Why are you even coming to me? I'm offering zero support, I'm offering zero advice, and I'm offering zero admiration. I don't care. I can't care. Caring about you is like standing in front of a loaded gun and telling the person behind it to shoot me in the most vital of places. It's dumb, it's suicide, and it's for no reason.

"Alright, here I go."

I don't know what to say. I'm not proud of you. I'm not happy for you. I'm angry at you. You left me, you left what could've happened, a life cushioned by a supportive girlfriend and a future home. Something to look forward to. Instead, you decided to put your life on the line, every single fucking day, and to leave me, not speak to me for a month, not wanting to "hurt me more". You're hurting me now. You're really, really good at that.

"I don't know what to say except good luck."

Honesty is the best policy, right? Yeah? No. There goes my supportive facade. You stop responding and I stop caring about you or your whereabouts. It isn't worth it to me anymore. I can't care about someone like you. I don't know why I thought I could.

It'd be selfish of me to beg you to stay. It'd be selfish of me to resent you for wanting to do this. It'd be selfish of me to hold you in a lower regard or lower esteem because you left me for something you thought was more important. It'd be selfish of me to hold you in any regard or esteem at all. But you're a selfish human being, and so am I. We're just different in the way we're selfish, and we're different in the ways we pretend that we're not. We're humans. It's in our nature.

You're a reckless, impulsive, dangerous, insatiable human being and I am a cautious worrier and a bookish introvert who finds comfort in falling into themselves. You judge strength on physical tests, and I judge it by how much shit you can fall in and how clean you are when you stand back up again. I'm not strong to you, and you're not strong to me. I can't lift a car and you can't keep from throwing up when I tell you that I still love you. Luckily for my scrawny arms and your weak stomach (or your alcoholic tendencies and my foot constantly being in my mouth, take your pick), neither of those things will ever have to happen.

I can't do myself the injustice of continuing communication with you. Gin gives me headaches and your telephone number is far too easy to mess up when my drunk fingers pound heavily on keys that all look the same to me. I'll see you every single day leading up to July, which is when you leave for good. I will smoke cigarettes in front of you and pretend you are not there. It's my way of keeping in touch. I kept my half of the deal when I didn't do anything stupid involving pill bottles and kitchen knives and when I tried to forget you. Now, keep yours, and don't talk to me.

Your reckless body and brain will head off to war and I will face my demons in the mirror of my bathroom with a bottle in my hand. I can't handle the truth.

"Don't hate me."

Too late.