He knows he’s being a loser. But it’s like trying to control your bowels in the middle of a fulfilling dump.
Did he just say dump? Man, this is just so farkin’ Freudian. Annoying pissy bastard little Freudian phrase.
Just when he’s feeling deeply. Brownly. Lump like.
It’s a Saturday night. Last Saturday they were at Turquoise Cottage. Arguing. But they were together. Right now he’s not in TC. He’s not with her. He’s drunk, but not happily. And, he’s watching a cheesy soppy shitty daft wouldn’t-watch-it-even-if-the-last-action-hero-was-long-extinct, romantic film on HBO.
Jennifer Love Hewitt has just died on arse-whose-name-he-doesn’t-know. Arse-man was her husband and he was an A-class bastard to her when she was alive. Now arse-man is in regret mode. No. actually he’s feeling seriously screwed. He’s bargaining with angels to get her back so he can show her how much he truly deeply madly loved her. Loves her.
But isn’t that precisely why rude-arrogant-presumptuous-hollywood-arse gets to haggle with angels while he sits here like a potato on a bloody couch feeling deeply for arse-man; sobbing, farting, drinking like a bastard and blowing kilos of snot into reams of toilet paper.
He’s just lost his girl too. Rephrase. She dumped him. Like trash. And there’re no angels fluttering conveniently around his snot-swollen head, feeling his pain.
He loves her. He loves her very much. So so very very much. Just like A-class bastard here, who loves Jennifer Love Hewitt. His heart feels like it will burst. He’d die in a second right now if somehow it could prove to her how much he cares. If she’d just give it one more chance.
Why’d she do this to him?
Well ok, so they’d been fighting a lot. Okay so he agrees he hadn’t been paying much attention to her. Ok fine, yes yes, he accepts that he’d been obnoxious, a lot, lately. But, but he loves her, na? Doesn’t that count?
Nobody understands. Nobody.
Oddly enough this B-grade film seems to have been made with extraordinary sensitivity. And that song he heard on the radio while driving home. It just somehow spoke to him. Of him. His pain. Enrique Iglesias’ pain. ”D’you know what it feels like, loving someone…” In his head he repeats the chorus between sips of whiskey, nodding to the beat “D’you know, d’you know, d’you know…” He’s never going to deride Enrique ever again. At least not privately – in that inner sanctum where he really doesn’t think or believe half the things he claims to.
Like right now he doesn’t believe that miracles aren’t possible. Fervently, deeply, passionately, he doesn’t believe that it can’t be.
Minus minus = +. Plus. Positive.
Miracles. Are. Possible.
Man. This cheap ass whiskey is really going to cork up his bowels tomorrow.