'True Disaster' / Tove Lo

True Disaster

Tove Lo

Come home.

Shit.

Red wine and weed off you in waves.

You know when you sit, at the end of the night, and stare: in ways maybe you shouldn't really be indulging -- in ways you sort of feel gross about -- in ways you thought you'd left behind. Something about the vibe is wrong. The music left you underwhelmed; conversation left you quiet. 

You weren't the pity invite. But you shouldn't be there.

I want to type "What is a vibe?" or something to that effect, but there are faces in my head. Rolling eyes. Sideways glances. Literal steps away so they can't hear you speak. You think you leave this behind in high school, and then you end up teaching it.

Fuck it.

Verbal communication is vicious. As an entity, I mean: only one person can speak at a time. The more people engage, the less information or relevance comes across, and how pointless is one person? Without end, without reason: irrelevant. So no wonder you pull it aside, choose different forms, and work within the parameters that make sense on your terms. But I can't fathom them. I can't bond that way.

What do you do, can I ask that? I'm not asking to be rude. I genuinely want to know. But if I ask, there will be a judgmental gaze (can you believe she has to ask? why can't she just do?), and I will never get an answer that works on my terms.

I want to know. I want to know why I can't broach it, why I'm sitting at 2am on a Friday staring at my computer, listening to Tove Lo, trying to parse my understanding of this.  I can't be cool; is that what I want to hear? If so, well shit -- I'm only telling myself. Yell it from the rooftops, darling: you're thirty, you're desperate for your twenty-something nights -- you know, the ones where you got home at 3 and cracked another bottle, sat on your balcony and watched people stumble into bushes to vomit  ------ oh, nostalgia. And you thought you were old then.

I age. I come to terms. Sometimes with how unrealistic my expectations are. 

I can't be anything to you. And it's not because you are better than me or vice versa. It's purely and equivocally because I'm incapable of faking it. And christ, let me goddamn tell you, I could, friendship, oh I fucking could. Once upon a time I was the queen of it, darling --- I owned bullshit. But I no longer see that point.

So where does that leave me? 

Honest.
With that voice in the back of my mind, reminding me of all this goddamn shit I thought I'd...

But you never leave it behind, do you?

Those heartstrings.

I mean, this night, this conversation, will die in my mind. This particular event, these particular people -- no worries, no issues ------ I won't recall, in a year.

So why do I keep doing this to myself?

What am I really getting out of this?

Zero fucks about it.

Goodnight.

More, soon.