I was already there. Faking happiness, dancing to songs sadder than the look on a child’s face when they break a new toy. You arrived, decked out in Alamo hat, displaying proper Texan pride. I left, came back, you were gone. You had broken down in a matter of minutes. I tried to call you. No answer. Straight to voicemail. I decided against leaving one. I texted you. No reply. I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Things continued smoothly. Then I saw Jordan. Completely calm and collected. Happy. Laughing, making his usual ‘fuck-being-politically-correct’ jokes. Then something snapped. The record came to a screeching halt. We all got quiet. Heard the yelling. Tried to help. I left decided to bail. I came back too late to be reactive but just in time to be proactive. There could have been blood all of the floor. The down-talker forever. We both helped you. Two of the greatest girls on the planet. She knows who she is exactly. I walked around for a bit more, danced a bit more. Tried to shake it off. Then here you come. Talking about “getting a bit more serious”. I’m sorry, but I must decline. I didn’t have the heart or the balls to tell you I’m faking all of this. Sure, being with you is fun and you’re great but, you aren’t my definition of everything. You’re just my right now. And not to be frank or blunt or brutal but my ADHD consumes me and I’m moving too fast for you. I don’t want you tying me down with a very visible anchor. You can take your stick shift and your flannel shirts and cheap tattoos and shove it. I’m not sorry and I probably never will be.
