Love

Love.  People like to write songs about it. It's one of those things that sounds like a great idea, sounds like fun, like a grand adventure. We wish for it, hope for it, pray for it. We think that if we're good and patient like little kids waiting for Christmas that love will show up like presents from Santa Claus under the tree.

I think I'm drunk. Double shot of Jack and 3 Heinekens. Lightweight, I know. I'm laid out on the lawn of the Courtyard Marriott. It's chilly but I don't want to go inside. I really wanted to smoke some weed but the job I'm trying to get is going to drug test me so I have to stay clean for at least the next couple weeks.

I'm not gonna cry. I could cry. If I allowed it I could find myself sprawled out on this lawn sobbing like my dog just died, but I won't. Instead I will hide behind giggles and mindless chatter because that is what you do when your heart has been ripped out, broken, shattered, stomped, lit on fire and buried under a pile of shit and there's nothing you can do about it. You still have to go on living because there are people counting on you. People who rely on you, so you put on the face and you hold it together.