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You're a Fuck

Updated: Oct 25, 2022

You're a fuck. It’s not like you didn’t know this. It's not like the people standing on the bleachers next to you didn’t either. They knew from your smart ass snappy comebacks. From the drugs they took, and the desire you distributed to them, or from the writing they saw on the wall. Written in your past relationships and your own blood. You were infamously famous for foul fuckery and regrettable damned decisions. They knew you were a light-headed, argumentative, psychedelic, cowboy fuck. They thought you were a fuck for these reasons? Did they even know? Yeah, your head had been knocked around. Sure, you didn’t like to step down from an argument. Hell, even when you didn’t take one hit, in six months (or more), you were still even called the acid guy. Maybe it was the fashion? Yet, none of those reasons put you in the same class of fuck you found yourself in.

You snap back from the sporadic reflection. Not trying to ignore the people you call your friends. The drunk bunch loosely dancing to a DJ who’s on par for a semi sub-par school. As they wave their hands and hips back and forth to the bass drops you fade out again. You're focused on the smaller waves of offset hues slowly crashing into the crowds of people. These distant waves are taking your thoughts with them. It’s then your driving mind sends you straight into a wall of sadness on the melancholy road. As you are moving slowly to the music, you’re fixated on their gazes and much more rapid dance moves. They are spilling with happiness, dripping with bliss. You are none the above. You were disappointed. Disappointed in the fact this may be the last time you have the group together. Maybe if there was a funeral they would all get together again. Probably not, somebody would be busy. Probably Austin. Shit, this trip is my first in months, and probably my last for a while, maybe ever. I should have stuck with the three at the beginning but these mournful self reflection thoughts are what you craved. You craved this heartbreak, you fuck. You didn't want to measure, you knew chemistry well, you knew it would be seven plus hundred micrograms.

You can’t even tell these guys how many drugs you've taken. They will say you have a problem. You do. You can’t stop. Even when you stop taking it you’re still wrapped in these blankets of pity, depression, and loss. You say it’s not your fault. You had problems before. Your first real love died. You got a DUI. You can’t remember anything even with your mind directly dedicated to it. You’ve had fifteen fucking concussions. You’re a fuck. It’s still your fault. You can’t seem to do anything you want. It really did help as you built yourself back up from nothing. It is an unresearched accelerant of dendrite ion channels, or so you believed. Shit, you had the anecdotal evidence on hand. It was helping at first but now it’s just like alcohol. Just like weed. Just like any crutch of self-pity you use to escape your reality. While wallowing in the pool of this stupid self-pity we start to leave. Super Duper Kyle is putting on a super shitty show.

It happens again. You break out of the cage inside your own head. Looking around at the life that’s going on. We pass person after person with a smile smeared across their face. You lather a fake one on. You need to look better. You need to act better. You didn’t find the answers you were looking for. You just found out you’re still a Fuck. Your ego was killed months ago but your problems didn’t die. The drugs are wearing off. Your headache starts to come back. As the pain starts to form behind your eyes and at the base of your skull you take a deep breath. We walk back in the door of the house, you let it go. The pain will always be there. It is what puts the joy in the rest of life. You accept that. You crack a smile and a PBR. This is life, you stupid fuck.

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