01
Aug
07

Real vile friends

It gets lonely around the apartment sometimes. The walls are too empty and white. I keep telling myself I am going to fix all that, that I shall make this place look at least the slightest bit lived-in. But it’s to no avail. My couch is black and unassuming; the woods are all brown and boring, none even having a bit of character to them with knots or discoloration. I threaten to put up some of the art I’ve collected throughout the years, but I grimace every time I actually start hammering a nail in the wall. To be honest, I think I’ve gone strange.

Sometimes I try talking to myself, speaking as if I were a pair of strangers that had just met by some interesting circumstance, such as a car accident or the birth of a child in a public place. Sometimes these people become lovers or enemies, but most of the time they just become friends. It’s rather uplifting. Becoming friends with oneself is a hard task. You cannot mask or hide your worst attributes. They are as crystal clear as the windowpane.

As this procedure progresses, Man Ray just looks up at me with confused emerald eyes and his ornery twitching tail and I feel like he’s laughing at me, giving me a raspberry, telling me to get real friends.

Real friends are too much work.

Vincent isn’t speaking to me again. We drank far too much bourbon on Saturday and he turned into the reckless cad he was when I met him the first time, all hands, slurred speech and empty promises. I love him like a mentor; a more fun version of a father or uncle but with no ill will or resentment, but sometimes the alcohol just makes him vile.

Don’t get me wrong; we all become vile on occasion. I have swilled down an entire bottle of vodka in one evening, destroyed things, threatened friends. I have made eyes at the foulest assassin possible, made a myriad of poor decisions. It’s just that Vincent and I have been through this a thousand times. He loves me, I think, but not for the reasons he stacks in his mind at drunken, opportune times. He respects my writing and my drinking, and the fact that I’m not your token shiny happy 20-something wearing brightly colored shoes, a shit-eating grin and toting a Livestrong bracelet.

He left his jacket here. It’s a dirty green military field jacket that I’ve always disliked, but anytime I have ever said anything to this effect, he takes out a cigarette and lets it hang from his snarled lips while patting the pockets, claiming how many stories were contained there, trapped, and if he ever got rid of the jacket, perhaps the stories would disappear too. I always told him he was mighty superstitious for an atheist.

Now I hate it even more; how it’s sprawled across my only chair, as if he were merely taking a long time in the bathroom and any minute he would be bound to come out, asking to play liar’s dice or work on an exquisite corpse. Last night I sat in my dimly lit living room and waited for it to happen, my fingers wrapped around a port glass, knowing better. As the night wore on, and my buzz blossomed into full-on drunkenness, I gave up on him. I put my arms through and slept.

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