When does the forgetting begin?

This blog is like a girl; I never know what to say to it to make it fall in love with me, err, I don't know what to say within it to make anything worthwhile. Nevermind. The further I descend into alcoholism the less I am able to make sense. A few nights ago I wrote a blog here, then quickly deleted it. I wish I could remember what I wrote, it was brilliant, I promise. Far more brilliant than anything you (or I) will find here tonight.

You know that song, "a little drunk is better than dead."? Bullshit. Even alotta drunk isn't better than dead. So wassup? Would you like to know what's up with me? Really? Okay, well, tonight I failed. I failed in the way I always fail. I didn't do anything. I just stared and babbled something that I thought would be clever/charming, but was instead just stupid. My friend told me he's sick of me complaining about being alone. Truthfully, I'm sick of it too. There are two solutions to my problem, suicide and not being who I am, and I'm too chicken-shit for either of those. I'll keep being who I am, friendly and nice, insightful at times, good for a hug, but ultimately forgettable, passable, worthless.

I don't give a shit if you think otherwise. This is true. These thoughts are a reaction to my environment; the signals I've been given lead me to believe these things about myself. Why wouldn't they?

So I suppose the forgetting begins now, now that I'm really drunk. The remembering will begin soon, though, when I'm rocking back and forth, naked, in my bed, still finding the strength to press the rim of the bottle to my lips.

Who will love me now?

Those who loved me then, for a little while at least.

Nevermore.

Nevermind.

I don't expect love from anyone. When it comes to me, in a meaningful hello, in an extra tight hug, I'm blown away, like the bristles of a dandelion, like the body of somebody I'll never know.

Fuck.