3. Into The Past

This is a chapter of a new project I am working on. Enjoy!

3.

Into The Past

            Kyle was right in his idea to kick-start my fledgling writing career; I needed to start where I had left off. To be a great writer you need to find inspiration. Once I had found this inspiration and managed to produce two novels. They achieved local success and landed me a job writing a weekly column for an up and coming magazine. The magazine had died, but I didn’t want to waste my work and transformed the articles into a blog. New York is full of bloggers and I was happy to be one of them

            Three years of blogging caught the attention of a few sponsors that were willing to pay for an ad on my site. This was enough to pay for the things I needed along with the income that came every few months from book royalties.  The blog, Rent(minus)Control, was a hit not only with locals but with women and gay men that had been through similar life experiences. I wrote about the only thing I really knew… me.

Re-launching the blog wasn’t as difficult as I had anticipated it to be. The library of posts I had built over the years was enough to give me a head start at a new beginning. It was only appropriate to rewind time to the day I first moved to Brooklyn.

It’s Brooklyn Bitch!
August 9, 2002

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘moving is hell’. I firmly believe that the

person who came up with this must have been moving to Brooklyn. Moving can be a nightmare no matter where you’re going, but I can promise that this is worse. Let us return to last Thursday when I paid the first month’s rent on my new apartment.

The very Jewish man that I signed a lease with had said that they would have the keys to the apartment that night because there were a few things they needed to finish around the place. I said that was fine, making my way over to the apartment to begin moving in.

The building was newly renovated and incredibly nice. I was surprised, to say the least, to find that there was no power or water in the apartment. I got on the phone and called the person said to be the property manager, he promptly told me he had no idea what I was talking about and I needed to call someone else. After playing phone tag for about twenty minutes I was able to find someone that knew something about the apartment.  This is when the tomorrows began.

Friday came and I had to move my stuff in, power or not. After moving everything in I called the tomorrow man and he said Monday was the soonest power and water could be on, not to mention I still had no keys to the apartment. I called the Jew that had taken rent money and a deposit from me and he said a locksmith would come out to change the locks, but not until Saturday.

Saturday arrived and the moving truck needed to be returned to a location in Queens. I haven’t driven in months and have never been much of a driver. Even though I have a $750 warrant in Wyoming that we can talk about another day, I drove the moving truck. Oh, the misadventures! What happened: I sideswiped a bus, nearly tearing the truck’s mirror off, hitting one of the cement barriers that support the elevated rail followed that little adventure.

I can say that if it weren’t for an innate ability to laugh at myself, there would probably have been tears from stress. Somehow I managed to get the truck back to the lot without causing much more harm to it.

Sunday was a bright and happy day. Stopping in the local store where I bought dinner. Arriving back at my powerless building I was greeted by silence. The security guard who has to let me in and out of the apartment, due to lack of keys, was gone. I sat on the stairs for about an hour before he arrived to open the door to the black hole that was home. Plopping on the couch I lit enough candles to see my white trash dinner. Eating cold spaghetti-o’s, warm bottled water and pint of melted ice cream. It’s like living in a white trash paradise and there just happen to be some brown people here too!

Monday. Oh, Monday. I awoke with such high hopes for the day. I waited until about noon to call the property manager about the water and power.  All the tomorrows had been changed to Monday when Saturday had arrived. I was very unhappy to hear that they weren’t going to be able to fix anything until Friday. That’s when it happened, I snapped. This is a direct quote from my conversation with the tomorrow man, “Everyday has been tomorrow, it’s fucking tomorrow! I can’t take a shit in the fucking toilet or make anything to eat. I have no water in the bathroom, but for some reason have it in the kitchen. I have no power and it’s been four days. You let me move in and it’s a fucking slum. I’m going to report you if it’s not fixed today!”

Mind you, that all of this came out in my loud-scary-sounding-straight voice. I feel I’ve been jerked around enough and obviously being nice isn’t working with these people. I had to leave so I could find a place to charge my phone and laptop, but unfortunately for me the three Starbucks I visited were full of people in my same sinking boat. Not one of them had a free outlet for me to use.

I got myself on the ever-lovely L train and made my way home. I was straddled with a shoulder bag and three heavy shopping bags that were beginning to rip. My phone kept ringing: Mom. Friend. Friend. Mom. Friend! There are those moments when you want to pull your hair out, but I have mine cut so short there’s not much to work with. I walked into the darkened apartment, knocking over a tower of DVD’s. It just added to my already over the top frustration. In the dark a note had been slipped under the door. The Jew landlords were working to get the power and water working! They claimed to not know anyone was living in the apartment, which I had to do my best not to snap over.

It’s now Tuesday and things are coming together. I have a toilet that can flush, hot water to shower and electricity to see. It just goes to show that you have to yell in a scary straight voice sometimes for people to listen.

The amount of time that had passed between the writing of this post and my current reality was astounding. It’s now 8 years later, and I’m that much older, with new break-ups and melt downs under my belt. The person that wrote this felt like a stranger. Though it was still possible to see the 18 year-old version of myself sitting in the coffee shop window, pounding away at the keyboard.

Back then there was passion in my writing. Determined, I wrote everything about my life down. No detail was too small or too risqué for print. I just needed to find that passion again. The memory was cut short as a buzzing in pocket beckoned,

“Hello?”

“What are you doing?” Rachael asked, clearly using her cheap new Bluetooth. The sound quality was awful for anyone she plagued with a call.

“Just going over some old blogs to try and get back into the swing of things.”

“Oh yeah, how’s that going?”

“It’s like I’m a different person. I still love writing, but I don’t know what to write about.”

“Write something that will get us on television. Something that’s really pathetic and oppressed. Like gays and their straight wives.”

“Since when are you looking to be on Jerry Springer?”

“Ha ha, you’re cute. Anyway, come meet me for a drink. I just sent the address in a text, wear something nice.”

There was no time to argue as the line fell silent. Rachael was plotting something I probably wasn’t going to like, but at least it would provide a distraction and perhaps a blog.

To meet the 9 o’clock deadline that was provided via text, there was barely enough time to head home and change. The only draw back to living in Brooklyn is that it takes so much time to run home and then back to the city. Cabs have never been my favorite method of transportation, unless really drunk and too tired to wait for a train. A quick ride on the A train next to a rather potent homeless man, and I was at the entrance of the wannabe-hip-bar, Joshua Tree.

Rachael was easy enough to spot, her pink Britney Spears’ wig accented with a black top hat.

“Really?” It was impossible not to ask, the wig was hideous.

“Shut up, I love it.”

“What is this?” asking as I examined the sea of people.

“Some album release... or book… something.”

“Why are we here if you don’t even know?”

“Free drinks. I needed a date.”

It was like the sound had drained from the room. When you see an ex for the first time after a break up there’s a surge of emotions. What was rising in the pit of my stomach was a mixture of repulsion and fury as I caught sight of The Devil and the one he had left me for. Joshua Tree is a relatively small bar and there were too many people around for me to dash towards the bathrooms where the room opened up. There was no need to say anything, Rachael saw what was coming.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” The Devil’s words were belittling, as if we were casual acquaintances that saw each other now and again.

“What the hell do you want?” Rachael was ready to knock either of them out, possibly even angrier than I was.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” spat The Devil.

“He has nothing to say to you.”

Suddenly a vision flashed in my mind of Rachael flying forward, the wig dropping from her head.

“It’s fine,” I interjected.

“It’s not ok. I liked you, even when everyone was telling Ryan to dump you. I pushed him to get back together with you after the first break up. I think of myself as a good judge of people, and you just snuck right under my radar and that pisses me off.”

The Devil didn’t respond, his new toy stepping forward.

“You remember Devon,” The Devil said, as if the image of this person wasn’t burned into the back of my mind like cheap pornography that I was unable to erase.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with cloths on and your legs together.”

Devon leaned into The Devil, thrusting his tongue into my ex’s mouth. There wasn’t much I could do to top that.

“Screw this,” Rachael said, and without warning the half full martini bolted from her hand and into the faces of the two men that topped my list of least favorite people.

Holding back laughter was almost impossible as we rushed out of the bar to avoid the bartender that was heading our way.

‘He’s a motherfucker. Don’t waste a second thinking about him.”

“If only it were that easy.”

Rachael understood me better than anyone. We were the same person in two different bodies, she just happened to be more sexually energized than anyone I’d ever met.

“Why’d he choose him?”

“Cuz he wanted a slut. That’s what all guys like The Devil want. Let’s go dancing.”

I appreciated Rachel’s efforts, but all I could conceive of doing was crawling into a hole.

“I’m gonna go home.”

“No, don’t let those assholes ruin your night.”

“I’m tired. I shouldn’t have come out, and I have to meet with my old editor in the morning.”

“You want company?”

“No, I’ll be ok. You go have fun. Call and tell me about it tomorrow.”

Rachael kissed me on the cheek and headed off in the opposite direction of myself. I was in for a night of torment as the questions of why began to bubble up inside.

2. Fag Rag

This is a chapter of a new project I am working on. Enjoy!

2.

Fag Rag

            Everyone is allotted a certain amount of time by their friends to grieve the end of a relationship. My time had just expired.

            “Get up!”

            The sheets I had wrapped myself in were forcefully pulled from the bed.

            “It’s been a week. We’re going out.”

            “I don’t want to.”

            “I don’t care.”

            It didn’t take long for me to realize that any attempt to remain in the bed was useless. Without warning, Rachael pulled the fitted sheet from beneath the mattress, tossing it over my head. As I lay there in the newly created darkness, all I could hear were the heavy thumps of shoes moving around the bed. With a grunt and a heave, the sheet tightened and I was jolted from my comfort space.

            “We can do this my way, or my way. Get dressed.”

            Days of sleep had translated into what felt like the heaviest hangover of my life. With a dark pair of sunglasses acting as a defense against the sadistic sun, the two of us left the comfort of Brooklyn to meet a mutual friend in the city. I had known Kyle the longest, having introduced he and Rachael a few years back. They had become immediate friends, something that worked well for me; I was never good at being a mediator when friends didn’t like other friends.

            Kyle was one of those very typical New Yorkers in the sense that he never wanted to leave the comfort of the city. The city specifically being Manhattan, as if the other four boroughs don't exist. He and Rachael had decided on the restaurant, a cozy little diner in the heart of the Financial District. This area of the city was unlike any other area on Saturday; empty.

            “Two?”

            “We’re meeting someone,” Rachael responded, pushing past the hostess.

            We made our way to the back of the restaurant, finding Kyle in a booth with brown leather clad seats, on either side of a classic mahogany table.

            “Hey, ladies!”

            Kyle and I were very different types of gay.  Having to explain this on more than one occasion, and to more than a dozen people in several different situations, I devised a rating system. There are three levels of G when it comes to being gay… in my world.

            1G’s – The one G gays are the type that you would never know were gay. These are the boys that hide in the closet behind their macho attitudes and stories of chicks they’ve banged. They are often the most attractive and desirable, but if you ever manage to actually end up with one, they are riddled with problems and insecurities. To date, you are signing on for a relationship of secrets and often disappointments.

            2G’s – These gays are a little more widely known and accepted. I place myself in this category. These are the gays that are sometimes confused with straight guys, but for the most part are known for who they are. These gays are open, but not over the top when it comes to ‘gayness’. I personally think that this group makes some of the best gay husbands a girl could have, but I suppose that would be a subject best left for Rachael to answer.

            3G’s – The 3G’s are necessary in order for gay nightlife to exist and function the way it does. Here we have our drag queens and other spectacles. There’s hardly a gay club in existence that doesn’t have at least one resident queen. Kyle isn’t a drag queen, but he definitely has the over the top personality. His chosen career is as a publicity agent for the lovely ladies of nightlife, making him a Queen Mary of sorts.

            “You look like a hung over tranny mess, girl.”

            “Thank you, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Being criticized, even as a joke, wasn’t on my to-do list.

            “Tell me all about it. How’d it happen?” Kyle was so eager for the gossip on my break-up that he was nearly crawling over the table to get it.

            “Do we really have to talk about it?” Covering my face was all I could do. Rachael had me pinned inside the booth and the only way out would be to climb over the pot of steaming coffee that had already been ordered.

            “I only ask because I care,” Kyle said. “And I thought you might want to think about a rebuttal.”

            My hands dropped,

            “What are you talking about?”

            Kyle was reluctant to answer as he dug inside his bag,

            “That must mean you two haven’t seen this week’s fag rag headline.”

            ‘Fag Rag’ was Kyle’s term of endearment for the only surviving gay weekly magazine. It always focused on pop culture and the happenings around New York City. It just so happened that this weeks happenings were about the Devil and I.

            “Who even knows they broke up?” Rachael asked.

            “Who would want to write about?” I added, yanking the magazine from the hands across the table.

            The page had been folded down, not that it would have been hard to find. The left page was a full-blown picture of The Devil with his name in bold black. The right page was an interview given by The Devil himself.

            How’s your career going?

            Things are going great. I’ve been booking clubs all over the city, and a few between here and D.C. I’m a resident DJ at two New York clubs, and I’ve just released the first single from my upcoming album.

            We hear that you’re single now. Is that true?

            Yes.

            What happened?

            Things just fell apart. We’re really different people. Ryan has a lot of things he needs to work on in his life, and I don’t think that I’m strong enough to help him through the troubles he faces. I’ve also met someone new.

            What sort of problems is your ex struggling with?

            A lot of alcohol abuse. I think he uses it to cope with his dwindling career.

            Tell us about the new man!

            His name is Evan. He’s an amazing guy, everything I could hope for. He has a life and a career. We’re both over-achievers and we’ve already moved in together.

            I couldn’t control myself. Tight fisted, the magazine shredded in two.

            “This is bullshit! I don’t have a drinking problem… at least one that isn’t totally normal.”

            “Cheers to that,” Rachael toasted with her bloody mary.

            “He wouldn’t even have a career if it weren’t for me.  I had a successful column and blog. I was offered a book deal a year after we started dating, and had to say no because The Devil thought it would take away from our time together. He practically locked me in that fucking apartment and fed off of my publicity.”

            “Girl, we’ve been telling you that for years. You should have tossed his ass out a long time ago.”

            “What do I do? How do I fix this?”

            Kyle mulled my questions around as he sipped at his cooling coffee.

            “What about that book deal, is the offer still good?”

            “I doubt it. That was three years ago. I haven’t put anything new out in forever.”

            “What about the blog, that was popular.”

            “Was popular. I stopped adding new posts and the fan base dried up.”

            “Writing is your thing. I say it’s time you got back out there.”

            “I don’t even know how to go about it. My first two books were just dumb luck, and the blog was more or less personal gossip.”

            “Let me give you my professional opinion,” Kyle loved saying this. “Start the blog again. Pick up where you left off, maybe rehash a few of the former details so people can jump right in. Give that a month or two and then go see the editor that offered you the book deal. Create a following and then seek a publisher. It’s simple, and genius.”

            The idea of suddenly jumping back into a career that I had abandoned was almost terrifying. What if the readers I had once connected with had moved on? There was also the chance that my writing was no longer relevant. Not that there was another choice. My financial situation was bleak. I had put most of my earnings into the apartment that was now home to The Devil. There was no way of knowing, but from past experience I could almost be certain that getting my fair share would be an ordeal.

1. Dating The Devil

This is a chapter of a new project I am working on. Enjoy!

1.

Dating The Devil

            Up until about ten minutes ago, I was in what appeared to be a committed relationship. Let me rewind twenty minutes to the point before the snow was blanketing me.

            “Where are you?” Kyle sounded genuinely concerned, though it may just have been the loss of his favorite drinking partner.

            “Just getting home. I drank too much.”

            “Call if you need me. I’ll be here for a while.”

            Hanging up the phone, my key didn’t want to open the lock to the apartment I shared with my boyfriend. We’d been living here for more than four years, this wasn’t the first time the lock had been a problem.  Pulling back on the handle and giggling the knob did the trick. Pushing forward the door remained firmly in place blocking my entrance. The deadbolt, which was never used, had been locked.

            Drunken eyes were making it incredibly difficult to locate the key I never used. Finding it, access was granted to the apartment. The place wasn’t very big so the light radiating around the closed bedroom door was enough to guide my way. Tossing my keys and jacket onto the sofa, I made my way to the bedroom. Sleep was the only thing on my mind. Hopefully the light meant The Devil had fallen asleep early and wasn’t up late working.  The Devil is a nickname I had given my boyfriend on our second date; a tattoo on his back inspired me.

            Once again a locked door was stopping me. Having locked myself out of enough places, I snatched my keys from the sofa, shoving the small mail key into the doorknob. The cheap handles that were used on bedrooms opened easily, I assume they were mainly meant to slow unwelcome visitors. My eyes burned as the light of the bedside lamps shot into the darkness of the living room.

            Watching for a few moments, the black sheets writhed in a rhythmic motion. My presence was finally noticed when the keys in my hand slapped against the hardwood floors, The Devil jumping from the bed. I can’t say if the shock was clear through my sedated state, but I had not anticipated walking into a bedroom of full frontal that involved a stranger.

            “I can explain.”

            How was I supposed to respond? I turned away from him. There was a chance of tears and I couldn’t let him see that. Walking away, my arm was pulled back.

            “Ryan, wait! Let me explain.”

            “Explain what? I know what you were doing.”

            “It’s not like that.”

            “What is it like?”

            “It just happened. We’ve been working together a lot, he came over to help me finish up a song.”

            Biting my lip, responding was a bad idea, but I was too drunk to stop it.

            “It just happened? How did it just happen? When you crawled on top of him and stuck it in, how did that just happen?”

            “Maybe you should stay at a hotel tonight. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

            That was the final nail in the coffin. Being told to leave when I wasn’t the one that had slept with someone else was beyond humiliating. I shoved my way past The Devil into the bedroom where his dark-haired whore was still lying sprawled across my bed.

            “I will gladly go to a hotel so you can finish.”

            The Devil and his toy watched me fill a suitcase with all the cloths I could fit. Our bedroom wasn’t large, evident as I tripped over the foot of the bed, trying to move between the closet and my bag. All of my focus was on keeping both feet to the ground. Falling on top of the guy that had weaseled his way into my place wasn’t an option. I finished off the closet and my drawer in the dresser before shoving the bag into the living room.

            I didn’t bother to shut the door as I drug the bag behind me towards the stairs. Luckily for me the apartment is on the second floor. Tossing the bag down the stairs, I followed close behind the explosive bangs as the bag made its way to the floor. I waited the mandatory ten seconds outside the front door of the building, snow piling around my feet. When The Devil didn’t come after me it was time to find a place to stay. Searching pockets for my phone it wasn’t there. It occurred that it was in the pocket of my jacket now on the sofa I never planned to see again.

The city hadn’t plowed the streets and no one had touched the sidewalks. I trudged through the snow, nearly a foot deep at this point. The subway wasn’t far, fortunate because there was no chance of finding a cab in Brooklyn at this hour. The ride wasn’t nearly as long as the wait. Thirty minutes standing in a frigid station for ten minutes in an empty train car. There was only one place I could think to go and it wasn’t a hotel.

            My friend Rachael had an amazing apartment in a horrible building. Her dream apartment included slanted floors, dark hallways, and an unlocked front door; it was hard to forget the time a cop had warned us that crack heads often lurked in the stairwells of these buildings. I was now one of these people. Tired and drunk, I propped myself against the door of Rachael’s apartment in the hope that she would show up before the sun made an appearance.

Giving into the intoxicating sensation of the beer from hours before I passed out. What felt like only minutes passed when I was being poked sharply in the chest.

“Why are you sleeping in my hallway?”

Opening blurry eyes to see an orange mess of hair, I had to ask,

“What’s on your head?”

“I started shopping at this wig store down the street. This way I can be anyone… and not do my hair.”

Rachael pulled me to my feet, trying to maneuver her keys into the lock as I stumbled about. 

“Why aren’t you home?”

I didn’t want to answer the question. I knew why I wasn’t at home, but I wasn’t prepared to play twenty gay questions.

“What home?”

“Oh…” Rachael’s face said enough. “You can stay here as long as you need.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean you can stay until I get sick of you,” she smirked.

We had one of those unique relationships that can only be found between a gay man and his straight girlfriend. The two of us were a dynamic duo of laughter fun and messiness. The fun generally got in the way of her relationships, not many straight men are interested in frequenting gay bars with their girlfriends. Rachael had two passions: beer and sex. You can’t blame her; the two go well together, especially when the beer comes first.

My passions began with beer and ended somewhere far from sex. For as long as anyone can remember, sex had never been on the agenda. Like any semi-normal person I did it. Typically it was to appease whomever I was dating at the time. The latest in my long line of bad decisions was The Devil. Five years and he had gotten more sex out of me than most. Typically getting me into bed is like playing one of those claw machines in a grocery store. You keep putting in dollars, dropping the gripper, but just as you think you’ve got it… nothing.

“What happened this time?”

Judging by Ray you wouldn’t know the sun was coming up on her after a long night of nasal Christmas and binge drinking. Her perky meter was at a ten, making me feel even worse. Not only was I exhausted, but I wanted to sprawl on the floor and shower myself in pity.

“I caught him.”

“With who?” There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation to contemplate what I had said.

“I don’t know who!”

“Calm down, I’m just saying, if we know who it is then we can kick their ass.”

It was impossible to not love her for trying. This wasn’t the moment for cheering me up. The initial shock from what had happened was gone. Leaving behind the bitter emptiness that often accompanied a break-up.

“Can I change the subject?” Rachael asked, eagerly waiting to tell me something.

“I met the hottest guy at the bar tonight, and he had the biggest dick I’ve seen in a long time.”

“You screwed him?”

“Always.”

If I were smart a lecture would have followed, but hearing the story sounded like more fun.

“We did it in his car.”

“Where did you meet someone that has a car in the city?” You rarely met a New Yorker that lived in Manhattan and drove a car. That rule of course does not apply to the individuals with incomes in the high six-figures. We are not those people.

“He’s from Jersey… or somewhere. The car isn’t the point though. He had a piercing in the end of it, and let me tell you… wow!”

“That’s disgusting, and a little bit scary.”

“No, it was hot. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

“That’s because it’s usually considered a bad idea to stick a wad of metal up your who-ha.”

“You’re so funny. I’m not sure I it was just him, or the piercing, but he shot the biggest load I’ve ever.”

“Ok stop.”

“Really. I was drenched. I could have literally floated home.”

“Story time is over. We’re going to sleep.”

“Don’t be such a sour puss, or I’ll rub it all over you. It’s still juicy.”

“I love you, but you’re fucking disgusting. I’m gay and even I don’t like cum that much.”

“It’s amazing! I just wanna roll around in it.”

“While screaming, more, more!”

The two of us laughed as we climbed into the bed that lived among the mess of the back bedroom. Rachael somehow managed to afford a two-bedroom apartment without a roommate. I never really asked how she did it, knowing that she was barely making enough from her temp jobs to survive. Our friends all had theories on where she came up with the cash, but I didn’t care. If she were to tell me out of the blue that she was an 8^th Avenue streetwalker I’d buy her a box of condoms and take her out for a drink.

The sun blazed through the lavender sheets that had been pinned over the oddly tall and narrow windows of the room. Rachael was asleep before my head could come to rest on the pillow. No longer having her to distract my racing mind, the thoughts of another failed relationship enveloped me. One more to add to the list, but this time it hurt.

Coffee is the only thing that's forever

It's safe to say that guys are generally sexual, if not a little bit on the slutty side of the fence. When a guy doesn't live up to the stereotype of doing everything penis-first there must be something wrong with him.

Sex to me has never been that important. It's more of an obligation than anything else. From my first boyfriend to now, sex has always turned into a problem. Shew is starting to see the major drawbacks to dating me. Frigid, bitter, cold, and a bunch of explicits are often used to describe me. Though I will admit there's a warm fuzzy feeling that comes with them. Like any normal guy, Shew wants to get his business serviced. Unfortunately, I am not of the sexual working group. It seems more productive for people to give their hands a quick workout and be done with it. You know what you like, if you do it then it's over twice as fast and the way you want!

Something on television mentioned sex as a way of getting closer to a person. This is incorrect. Sex is a way of getting inside of a person. If you want to get close to me, first of all, you should pause and think about the dangers. If you're feeling brave, proceed with caution, and buy me a coffee. The fastest way into my circle is by way of Starbucks. After being infected by television, Shew brought up some of my behaviors. I told him what I hate telling people. I even prefaced with a little warning that no one actually wants to hear what it is I think.

I consider myself a loner. In fact being alone is something to enjoy. This city has so many people wandering around at all hours that when a person finds a minute to be alone they should try to make it last. Not to say I don't need anyone. I have amazing people in my life that fill up any existing voids. One thing kids should learn is how relationships really function. Forever means until a person is bored. I love you means I want inside you. And promises are only good until they're not. Coffee is the only thing that's forever. I've watched every member of my family do the relationship back flips and bull shit, I knew a long time ago that wasn't for me.

I'm not sure where things are going with Shew, this all feels uncomfortably familiar.