Can you ever feel yourself cracking? Feel your brain slowly sliding open like two tectonic plates hellbent on creating a gulf in the ocean? It is happening. I am slipping. Too many bad strokes of luck, I’m afraid. It might happen to you too someday. Hard to be sure. Everybody’s different. 

Last weekend, an old buddy was in town for the weekend. He hit me up while I was at a concert. We hadn’t seen each other in forever so I dipped out early. The first address he gave me was wrong because he was already tanked. Forgivable, to be sure. But then the second address was wrong, too. The third address was correct, but by the time I got there, he’d decided to retire to his hotel bar and forgotten to tell me. Then he told me his phone was dying. It was late by then and I’d already paid $25 in parking hopping from one place to another. Resigned, I told him to hit me up tomorrow. I went home, felt alone, and watched some porn until the sleeping pills kicked in. The next day, we played a bit of phone-tag. His last message to me was that he had to get going to the next state over. That was it. 

Last night, a guy I met at a party a few weeks ago texted me an invitation to go barhopping with him. Perfect. We met at his place. He was late getting there because he was out buying the pre-game. When he finally met up with me outside his front door, he had exactly one tallboy in hand from a nearby gas station. We stepped inside and he said he was sorry but didn’t have anything else to drink. Whatever. Not a big deal. Don’t freak out. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s fine. Don’t hold people to unreasonably high expectations just so you can justify your own depression and anger when they don’t meet them. We head out and have some beers. I buy. We head to the second bar. En route, he informs me that he doesn’t have any money, like no money. That’s why he only bought the one tallboy and let me buy without interruption at the last place. I let out a lackluster laugh and say, “Well, but you’ve got enough money for a couple beers at the next place, yeah?” He tells me he doesn’t, that his bank account is at zero and he bought that tallboy with change he found behind his couch. I ask him why he invited me out barhopping. He says he doesn’t have to drink, that he can just get waters and hang out, that he doesn’t mind. He tells me not to feel obligated to buy him anything, that I can get as drunk as I want, and that I am not to mind him. In as neutral language as I can find, I tell him that it was rather dishonest and impolite of him to invite me out under these circumstances. He thoroughly rebukes me. He points out many technically true things: he never said he had money, he doesn’t mind just going to bars and talking to people without drinking, and I am not required to buy him anything. He finishes the cigarette I bummed him and we step into the next bar. I tell him I’m going to the bathroom and he says he has to go too and follows me. 

It’s unclear how to get out of this situation. I propose going to a liquor store and getting a bottle and just going back to his place. He agrees and we find a place around the corner. While making our selection, he informs me that he has no food and no chaser at his place whatsoever. I buy a fifth of vodka and we step out again. Before we make it back to his place, he smokes two of my cigarettes. We get to his couch and there’s no TV. I sit and politely sip my class of straight vodka, brainstorming excuses. He downs about half the bottle in half an hour. He tells me he’s on Trazodone, that he’s adopted. That he never wants to have a serious relationship with a woman. I tell him I’m leaving and he gets mad. I just walk out to my car with him shouting after me.  

I drive back to my place blaring Post Malone’s “Better Now” and trying to get myself to cry as I chain smoke. Make it back in time to take a bunch more sleeping pills and catch the second scene of Anal Play Threesomes in full before passing out. 

It’s morning now and I know the day is fucked. Just past noon on a Saturday with no plans and the attitude and outlook of a kicked puppy. I hit up Tinder chicks, but they can sense my desperation. It’s apparent I’m lonely and just want to hang out with someone. Someone with follow-through and money, that is. It’s about the least attractive disposition imaginable. I’m in a pit and can only dig down. I text Jerry, but he’s in Florida. Emile is in Minnesota, Phil is in Europe? Adam doesn’t respond and Lauren has been avoiding me forever. I’ve had too much coffee and there’s no food in my fridge. I hate my job, have fallen out with most of my family, and still don’t know anybody in this fucking city. My head is cracking open. That personal holocaust is slipping in. The walls are closing. 

I went on a Tinder date a few weeks ago and it went well in the beginning, but then I got blackout drunk and I don’t know what happened, but boy is that girl not texting me back. I feel bad, like an asshole. She was cool and I blew it. In that pit and digging deeper. Called my ex but she says she’s driving. The isolation is overwhelming. This is it. There won’t be any bouncing back from this one. I have come close before, but this tears it. Soon there won’t be anything left. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. There is not any way to end this entry. It’s just fucked. The next entry will be even less coherent. I think I might be sorry.