Let it be known, I was miles away at the time. And I confess, I am skeptical of hearsay. But I have an account from a most reliable source, though I couldn’t say whom, no… Anyway, this source was kind enough to tell me that when you finally allowed a fragment of truth to slither through your parted lips, you choked, and grimaced. Wishing you could suck it all back in.
Oh, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. At least for people like you and I, who live on the fringe in the vaccuum of time. I’ve heard you’re older now and much more composed. That you’ve realized your personality isn’t trapped at the bottom of a Bacardi bottle.
Though I can’t see how you could be immune from the nasty consequences brought on by the quick search. Even with some sleep, black coffee, and a cold shower.
I recall your Friday nights consisting of scenes like this: Rooms full of your closest (most gorgeous) friends, the ones who can listen to you tell stories all night, stories in which you are always the hero. Stories no one will even remember come morning, because by the time they hear them, their breath smells like rubbing alcohol. It doesn’t even bother you. This is just the rehearsal, after all. You’ve been perfecting legends Friday after Friday since your lips tasted that first gin and tonic. Oh, such edge.
When you finally get started on your first novella, try not to exclude all the parts that would connect the dots. The bits and pieces that reveal why everyone around you needs saving in the first place. I can even be your editor if you’d like, just to make sure you record every gritty detail. Then we can celebrate. You and your doll friends, sipping up drinks, soaking up golden attention from store bought diamond lamps.
You don’t need my aid to create an excuse to celebrate. Your existence is reason enough. Isn’t it?
And that ego of yours is the reason can’t imagine you’ve changed.
Oh, you’ve changed? No. Learned the rules of the game, and all the ways around them.
Who am I to judge?
Perhaps it’s envy, not sensibility, that plagues me.
Perhaps it’s my own vices that have me caring so much about this all. Whatever this is.
Still, I hope you curse yourself every time the thought of me enters your mind. I want you to long for me the way you long for your Bugatti after a week’s vacation abroad.
Am I really above being treated like a possession?
I’d like to think there’s more to you than glassy eyes, fine taste, and a sex drive. But that’s about it. And I’m sure you’ve changed as much as the water I just
tried to change to wine.