It hurts to love him sober.
Wow. Love. Do I?
A friend nearly caused a near-accident when she, in bacchanalian fashion, asked: “so, you’re in love with him?” My mind drew blank. Cold sweats and clammy hands, let’s not jump into any conclusion, shall we?
I had mastered the act of dodging the act of asking myself if I did. How do you know? I’m simply thinking that this is taking ridiculously long to get over.
Having convinced myself to have been in-love before, on more than one occasion, I can’t help but deduce that I really don’t know what it is like to be in-love. If you incessantly ask yourself if you are, shouldn’t it mean that you aren’t?
My case is the constant ambivalence: the guilty pleasure of lingering on the feeling of hope and the mortifying ineptitude of hope.
I think of him and I want to hug a bunny. I think of him and I want to reach for a bottle of Jack.
I can’t handle bunnies. I can’t handle the comfortable tactile sense of blue skies and lollipops. I’d rather be downing a dozen shots of whiskey and think of the love that I want to give him than seducing my mind to think that fairy tales belong in the non-fiction section.
I believe I won’t be able to survive it if I do it sober.
Trivia: Photo taken of my bestfriend Jack lit by my bedside lamp in Manila, Philippines last August 2012. Post written semi-sober so apologies if you deem it written in bad taste.