I Am The Only Perfect Choice

Unfortunately, you’re a late life revelation, like saturated fats are super bad and the Bible’s just a book. Seriously, an anthology, best bits, picked to make the most sense. Or, some, anyway.

Then, I learnt lessons, like:

#1 Don’t trust if he stands you up &

#2 Limit the chances you give &

#3 Retrain your brain to think of something else &

#4 Choose to love another.

Self-help’s a worse religion, really, because it’s a course changer, convincing you better’s out there, diminishing neon to nothing. But with cliff burials, ground shifts, and coffins stick like Jenga bricks, diagonally. And you’re going to fix that shit eventually, whether you want to or not.

Past aside, because that’s patched if you ask me, a free-pass, all apologies out, what if we never met? Would that be best?

Because I am so in love with you right now. Sorry.

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It was a long time ago and it wasn’t my fault and I can’t change it and I can’t fix it and I don’t need to because it’s the past and it’s not here anymore.

Hardly revolutionary. Nothing I can say is. And nothing changes, either. Because my heart’s still in my mouth, and maybe that’s normalcy, you know?

If there was one promise I made, I’ve broken it, because it was ONE: Don’t be vulnerable again. But I’m letterbox watching because hearing from you’s the absolute pop of a day.

There were reasons layered like winter looks in overpriced magazines that don’t tell me things the internet couldn’t. And I’d tell myself this when you’d resurface like badly buried soil bulbs.

Not the priority. And that’s my biggest problem, isn’t it? Wasn’t it? Won’t that always be it?

We say there’s no way of stopping. But I wonder what happens the day you decide to. Another 8 years of apple drownings on Halloween, promises I can’t keep, comparisons like you’re Brad Pitt. And what if?

law school

You’re All Going To Hell Anyway, So You Might As Well Do Something For Yourself

Jack says, “Some films justify cheating and even endorse it, as if the writer’s after a way of rose-tinting a past they can’t really change.”

I ask for examples and Jack gives a comprehensive list that’s almost faultless, although his romantic comedy knowledge isn’t as full as I’d like in someone I’m considering seriously.

“What about Something Borrowed?” I ask him.

“That I didn’t get,” he replies. “The first half I couldn’t tell who we were vying for. And when she had the chance to fuck Jim Halpert and maybe even marry him and didn’t take it, the character seemed unknowable, as if the writer went back and re-wrote parts of her own life to feel better about them.”

“Isn’t that everyone’s dream?” I ask Jack. “To change things we can’t?”

“Not mine,” he replies, then he reaches for his phone, and I hear the message send, knowing I’m a bad overlap, like two people’s coats on a bus seat awkwardly layering or two flat fridge magnets, one peeling from the heater heat, the other more firmly stuck, only just. Not every action’s comprehensible so it makes sense that in films sometimes people make fucking stupid decisions.