What happens?  What always happens?

    I drink.  I drink so much so quickly.  I open my throat up and consume as much as possible.  I drown myself.

    And the next few hours are blurry.  I do irreparable damage.  I wreak havoc.

    I tell my best friend he’s my enemy.  You’re my enemy, I tell him.  

We laugh about this later.  We share a chuckle.  My silly words.  

He’s still my friend.  He’s still there and he questions nothing.  

A true friend.

    But the Girl.  How I hurt the Girl.  How I surprise her by demolishing myself, and in turn demolish her.  How I let my plague infect her fragile body and feed and feed until she just stares blankly and tells me how she doesn’t know if she can handle this.  

Handle me.  

    Things are not so easy.  These days.  These faces.  I grow weary.  

Lassitude.  Lassitude is such a good word.

And what is it they say about life?  It goes on?  Is that what they say?  

Well, yes, indeed it does.  And that is the part that hurts the most.  That is the part that burns deepest and sharpest.  It goes on.  It always goes on.  This shall continue and I shall have to continue with it.

What a crude joke.  What a poor trick.  

Looks like I have no choice but to rectify my accounts.

The war wages on.