Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you only ever want what you can’t have.
Your best friend is Jane Crocker, who is in love with someone else. She sees you as a friend at best and a burden at worst.
You drink. So fucking what.
You drink because it’s there. It’s never not been there. And alcohol is the only thing you can say that about. Your mother doesn’t care about you. Your friends are embarrassed of you. You’ve even abandoned yourself more times than you can remember.
You drink because you’re scared. Because if you say “I love you, and you not loving me makes me feel worthless” you can blame it on intoxication. Jane always blames it on intoxication.
And she’s not under obligation. She doesn’t have to love you. She can do whatever the fuck she wants.
But it still fucking hurts.
You’re just a fucking joke.
How could she love you? You’re a fucking mess. All you do is drink and flirt and act like a fucking idiot. The things you make, whether they’re the things you write or make or build or imagine, are fucking worthless. It scares you that she doesn’t love you, because it’s all the proof you need that you’re never, ever, ever going to be good enough for anything. She would never want you. What do you have to give her, Roxy? What do you have to give anyone?
Whatever. Doesn’t matter if you were more than a piece of shit, because you aren’t Jake English. Shitbag gunfucking asshole. Fuck him. What does he have that you don’t, why does she like him? Whatever. She can do whatever the fuck she wants. They can be in love and get married and have children and bake cakes and have fun, and you’ll be there sitting and listening to it all. Forced to recognize it every single day. Humiliated.
You know, on a pure and rational level, that this isn’t how things work. You’re fine and Jane is fine and Jake is fine. Everybody is fine, and if Jane doesn’t feel for you the way you feel, then her loss. And you can still be friends. You’re adult and you can handle this like an adult. And you’ll get over it and move on and be fine.
But right now, all you want to hurt and lash out and not be fine. You want to feel like the piece of shit you are, Roxy Lalonde. You want to feel miserable and depressed and like the world is going to end, because when is it Roxy’s fucking turn to be comforted? When do you get to be the one people care about? When do you get to throw a fucking tantrum, break things, scream out the feelings boiling in your chest? When do you get to break down and weep, and have someone hold you and make you actually feel like it really is going to be all better?
Never. You only ever want what you can’t have.
You’ll fall asleep soon. And you’ll wake up and drink a cup of coffee and feel ashamed that you ever thought any of these things. And you’ll talk to Jane, and nothing will have changed.
Things don’t change for you, Roxy.