The trend of late is to write something mostly incomprehensible one evening, filled with dire heartsickness and hormonal rage, and repent in the morning. It is the nature of my night.
For the first time in years my memory has been wiped à la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I cannot, for the life of me, remember writing this delusional blog post. Those are my sentences, sure. I can pick out the words I use, and the cadence is all egocentric Subway Philosophy. The plot is spot on, too. Last night I popped a pill and a martini was made. I sprawled out in the bath tub and sopped through another paperback. I hit the points I always hit. They are always there: the acknowledgment of the writing itself, the excessive production of getting stoned, the vague hint of sexuality, and always the unrequited romance.
I pulled myself out of bed this morning in a stew of still-drugged exhaustion. I had my clothes on, mostly. But I had showered, rather, taken that bath. My hair was still damp. My laptop had been perched on the desk, but pillows had been projected across the room helter skelter.
At work, I sat cradling coffee and checked my blog. And this, this confused and wistful piece, was appalling. No memories. No inklings. I did it to myself.
I did, I did it on purpose. I knew what I was doing the entire time I soaked in that tub chewing on olives and letting vodka mix with pills in my gut. Those are sad truths. I was erasing.
I decided to erase him almost as a lark. And by morning, he was gone.