My life was shit. If I follow through with my plans tonight, and kick off this pointless existence, that’s what I want it to say on my tombstone. My life was shit. I could tell you all about how much my life sucked, I guess. I could tell you about how my brother overdosed last month, and my dad, unable to see through tears, crashed his car into a telephone pole, killing him instantly. I could tell you all that, or I could just sit here, drinking my scotch, trying to gain enough courage to actually off myself.
I’ll tell you what I need. I need a girl, a chick, a member of the fairer sex. For sex. I need to do it, to actually stick something in something and release all this pent up frustration. But, more than that, I need the type of companionship I can only get from an upbeat girl, who will help me remember my life is worth living. I know what you’re thinking. That type of girl only exists in indie films, set to a soundtrack of The Shins or Bloc Party. But, I believe they exist in our world. In fact, I think I’m looking at one right now.
She seems free-spirited enough, I guess. She’s dancing in the middle of the bar, completely out of rhythm with the music around her. She’s holding a drink, eyes closed, swaying around like no one’s there. Sure, she might be drunk, but something tells me she’s not. She dressed in off-beat clothes, mismatched and haphazard—something no self-respecting girl would leave the house in, unless she walked her own path, with no regard to anyone else’s opinion.
I think I found her.
Approaching her is, of course, the hard part. I’d love to just walk up to her, flash a depressed, morose look, and be on the receiving end of her “what’s wrong?” I would then, of course, tell her all of my troubles and we would leave the bar, running barefoot through the rain or something. Then, we would spend the entire night talking about life and, despite how much it sucks, we just need to keep living it. She would tell me all this, and we would end the night with a kiss, maybe something more. And if we did go further, we’d part ways in the morning, never to see each other again.
I would walk away with a new appreciation for life. She would move on to some other poor schmuck, as if her entire life consisted of episodic therapy and fucking. And doesn’t it? Isn’t it her reason for living? Isn’t it why she’s in this bar, right now, dancing to the music in her head? She’s just waiting for me to walk up to her, so she can make my life better.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. She’s coming over here now. What do I do? What do I do?
“Hey,” I say. Smooth.
“Hi,” she replies. She doesn’t flash me a smile, or anything, just shakes her glass to get the bartender’s attention.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
This isn’t going according to plan. I put on my best morose look, casting a depressed look into my beer. I glance toward her face to see her study me, tilting her head slightly. This is better, I think. Her piercing gaze moves around my face, likely taking in every troubled line, pathways to my troubled soul.
She opens her mouth to speak. “You know you got bean dip on your chin?”
I wipe my chin with my hand, looking down at the brown smear on my palm. “Uh, yeah, I guess I do.” I try to flash her a smile as best I can. Though, I’m sure to make it an uneasy smile, so she can still see how troubled I am. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replies, collecting her drink. “Call it charity. You kind of looked like an idiot.” She turns and heads back to her place in the middle of the bar, leaving me with an empty glass and shattered dreams. I pay my tab, head out the door and home to shoot myself. I shouldn’t blame her, I suppose, but it really is her fault. I was entitled to her help, and she threw me to the side with an insult. What a bitch.