I realized how much of a stereotype I am.
I’m a writer; an alcoholic; a chainsmoker.
I have crippling existential depression.
I fill my life with lust and longing.

I break my own heart approximately three times a week.
I would be numb if I didn’t, and it’s near impossible to write when you don’t feel.
I forgive easily, because I know that it’s always a mistake to forgive.
You get hurt over and over. You feel.

Being intelligent is the most ungodly curse.
The thinking is too much, and that’s why I drown myself with liquor.
That’s why I am the way I am.
That’s why.

I’m in love with ghosts. Maybe it’s because I long for distant memories.
Maybe it’s because I’m preoccupied with life and death.
Preoccupied with immortality.
Everything is fragile. Our ghosts will haunt us forever.  

In a year, I’ll be in London.
My soul is too drawn there to deny it any longer.
In a year, I’ll still be emptying bottles.
I’ll still be breaking my heart. I’ll still be me.