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Nothing about these Modest Mouse nights is permanent or real so when you asked me to kiss you when I was sober and you were decidedly un-sober, I fucking wanted to like crazy.
Little fuck up that I am, I would have.
When the two of you went behind closed doors, I thanked god I knew her mind and I knew exactly the lengths to which she would go. There is nothing permanent about these beer pong nights and day-drunk days.
For one night, I was the only one in that house with any morals. Colin with the messed up teeth (they’re really not as bad as mine are) is three and some years older than me and he reminds me of a boy I once kissed years ago. He kisses like him, too. But you, you’re just my type, just right. Just wrong for me.

The saddest thing I ever saw up until last night was on television and it was a seven year old girl in pink giving her brother money for meth from her piggy bank. She begged him, “Please come home.”
The saddest thing I’ve ever seen is my brother ten minutes after he lost his virginity, shining with pride, and the girl who took it with an indeterminable look on her face. She was drunk for the first time ever that night and I don’t know for whom to feel worse.
Nothing about these designated driver nights is permanent.

Last night, I had an existential crisis, so I stood in the kitchen and cleaned the dishes until I felt better.
I don’t feel better anymore.
I want to stand on the shores of Lake Michigan and scream until my lungs fall apart. I need some fucking rules, is what I need. I need to legislate my life back together. When I reach that skyline, I want to know.
But until then, nothing gold or otherwise can stay.