Drunken Dispatches

It’s done.

I’m over you.

It probably took half my salary, hundreds of beers, an overnight stay at a cheap hotel (for a change in scenery), and yes, even two tickets to this concert you wanted to go to. (I got two: one for you and your companion and I bought it with the very best of intentions because I wanted you to enjoy it).

They were all worth it (even though the tickets, which cost more than my hotel stay, were wasted).

You’re complicated. You say one thing and you blog something else entirely. But that’s fine. I’m in a tight spot myself.

I never knew what got into me when I started sending you messages, to which, you replied, just to set the record straight. But what’s done is done.

You knew—you still do—that you’re young and smart and pretty and you knew—you still do—that I had fallen into the abyss of what passes off as love these days.

Fortunately, I got hold of myself before I got in way too deep. Friends, for instance, lent me a hand and pulled me out of that impossible rut. (They drank my beers too.)

But mainly, they were behind me when I said that I needed to forget you so that sometime in the near future, we can go back to being regular friends again, just like the way we were when we met each other for the first time.

I miss that.

In the meantime, I am going to celebrate this breakthrough the same way I did while I was moping over a love that could never be possible, by drinking a cold one. Or two. Or three. Whatever. Just needed to tell the world that I’m over you.

Later, friend.