He is the most brazenly manipulative person I have ever met, and for some reason I like that. It’s an intelligence that intrigues me, even though half the people who know him think he’s not that bright. Me? I guess I fell for the trap, which intrigues me even more. There’s something about the combination of good dick and cold, cunning wit that does it for me, even if it’s wrapped in a package of soot and vice and disdain.
I wish that after all these years I had less to say about him, but I guess I don’t. Even as I recoil in fear at what has become of us. I’m just curious to see what happens to a beautiful junkie after the age of 30. Does he shrivel up and disintegrate into the ground? Does he crumble into dust and get swept away with the wind? Does he die in a whirling dervish of drama? Or does he sit there, on his couch, bottle in hand, slowly sinking inside of himself while the skin starts to sag and the sentences start to slur, going nowhere, doing nothing.
Am I really going to stand here and watch him die with the fingers of his demons still wrapped around my ankles and threatening to drag me in. Threatening me. Hah. I am fucking fascinated. As I stand and watch. I feel like I owe it to him, to at least watch, to at least write it down. To memorialize the end just as I memorialized everything else.
God. Why him. Why did I have to get stuck with this one.