Falling Is Like This

Sometimes I feel like relationships consist of telling your same life stories to different people until someone finally appreciates them.

Unhappiness slowly creeps up on you, like a shape-shifting monster waiting in the darkness of your hallway, his bulging eyes watching your every move. The breath on his slimy tongue makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

In reality punk people are usually the gentlest, kindest folks you'll ever know. They're like hippies, only they wear way more black.

In my family strange is relative.

I swear you must have a rainbow shooting out of your ass, you're so bright and shiny and wonderful.

Manhattan can act as a giant suction cup, sucking you into its folds. The city breeds no wimps and makes no apologies.

I thought about the cast of The Wizard of Oz on the yellow brick road and wondered which character I was. Perhaps the Tin Man, in search of a red, pulsating heart. Or at least someone to give it to.

I loved our mutual corny sense of humor. Underneath all his macho bravado, he was a dork. Just like me.