Thursday February 20, 2014 at Balluchon
He tells me that he’s sorry but I have this bad habit of not trusting anyone with dark eyebrows. It comes from too many times left alone with this bad boy, dark eyebrows arching into Never Never Land. He’s been crushing his Ritalin and snorting it. I’ve been inadvertently supporting his drug habit, picking up his prescription at the pharmacy every Tuesday, like a diligent, Subway-riding idiot. “You don’t understand,” he says and I wonder, for the seventeenth time, if we ever really understand or if we’re just really talented at “fake it til you make it”. We are not making it. He forgets that he came home drunk again, that I found phone numbers in his pocket written in blue pen by girls name “Shannon” and “Mel”. He forgets that he humped me as I pretended to sleep, his dark eyebrows furrowed with carnal focus.