One That's Not a Story, But Rather the Truth

Because let's be real, the only semi-decent writing I've ever done has been to you. I sit around sometimes and wonder why writing to you has always been easiest and I guess it's because there's something to knowing that no matter what you did, someone had your back. You didn't care if I woke up and wanted to be a bitch to every person who entered my line of vision, you didn't care if I wanted to lay in bed and cry all day long, you didn't care if I wanted to spend the day outside rolling around in the grass with no cell phone, just to feel the sunshine. It didn't matter what I did, or who I wanted to be that day, or who I hurt, helped, or made happy. You were always there, no matter what, with that same look in your eyes. I wonder if you ever think back that far, if those are memories you even still have. Do you remember staying up all night, talking about any and everything. Movies, books, aliens. Do you remember when Andrea was around? How silly things got the later the clock went on. Do you remember our senior night. I made you sit with her because I didn't want her to be by herself. You told her about punching Eric in the face, you taught all about deep-throating hot dogs, a conversation I will never understand how that came into existence, Benji said he forgot we weren't already married and that she wasn't our kid, we literally watched your brother eat 12 plates of food. Would you look at my life now and be surprised? To see me in the exact same position as always. My life slowly going up in flames right in front of me. I swear I don't even try to fuck things up on purpose, but hey, maybe you already know that? Would you feel sorry for me for once, to see me actually being a tornado, not just a bad force in your life? Or would you laugh at your favorite disaster, back at it again? I'd tell you about everyone. I'd tell you about Tristan, he's so shy and somewhat awkward, he'd remind you of Zane. You'd love Lolli, everyone does, he's like your mom, seems like he's motherly and then pops off with ridiculously inappropriate shit. Travis, you'd like, he'd remind you of the people you hang with. You would love his stories. Alex would remind you of the person you used to be, quiet and reserved. You'd love my kids, they are incredibly smart, also slightly manipulative. They'd like you too. Is Bukowski still the great inspiration of your life? You know the thing that Bukowski and Fante fail to tell you is, regardless of the no fucks policy and managing to not spend any legitimate time in jail and calling it adventure, they were deeply unhappy people. Then again, all I've wanted is to be Lula and I still manage to find myself as miserable as them, so damn, maybe you're doing it right. Do you wish you had woken up from the hospital with no memory? The doctor said you could have had brain loss, if you had no memory, wouldn't things be different. You wouldn't need alcohol to run from yourself anymore. Do you think I'm cursed, New Orleans voodoo shit? Would you sit down and try to distract me? Lots of movies and food. Would you sit with me while I cried? Would you tell me it's okay to run and hide? Would you tell me to fight? Would you blame me? Or him? If I could have anything in the world, that's what I would want. Another human being, like you, who had my back no matter what. Who loved me, no matter what. Who could watch me cry, or ignore them, or be a bitch, or be happy, and never look at me any different. To truly be myself in my constant state of confusion and have that be just fine. I hope all things happy and good in your life. Always, and just for old times sake, drink one for me.