Slice of Life

Mutual fuckup: he was my best boy, until the sex. His fuckup, really, except he fucks up in precisely the same way with essentially mechanical regularity, and this time it was me. In this sense, my fuckup; rewind a week and watch my interest level blind me to the backbrain whisper that knew exactly what was going on. That's the power of game, I guess - nobody's immune.

"It's funny," I say, "how we're talking about this."

"Well," he says, "that's what we've always done -- we're doing it now. We look at things from an outsider's perspective." We vibrate on the same wavelength; intellectualization on both sides gives this trainwreck the aspect of an elaborate farce.

So now I have to decide whether to cut him off; this shouldn't be a question. It's never been a question before, in fact, which would make not cutting him off Round Two of allowing-my-interest-to-make-me-retarded.

Anyway, for those of you who read this blog - I'm still alive.