He sits there slipping slowly out of the bottle of vodka I got from across the street, and I survey the carnage in my bedroom of a few days of fucking and drinking. Earlier when he was on the phone, he told his friend, “We’re in our 30’s now, we don’t do that kind of stuff anymore!” I wonder if he knew that was a lie, or if it was an accident, because here we are, doing the exact same shit we did five years ago when we met, and which we probably did with other people for as long as we can remember. I agree that certain things have changed – my bar fly days seem to have just been a phase, but apparently being a fucker is a lifelong condition. It’s a terminal disease, just like my blood lust, which I’ve started to notice is a communicable disease, one that I’ve gotten from him, and I’m getting sicker by the hour. It doesn’t matter – I’d rather be sick together than healthy alone. Which is why we are lying in my bed yet again, gnawing on chicken bones, my head on his chest, the TV always on. Shenanigans. Apparently these are our shenanigans. He has baby fever, and I wonder how soon before I catch it, too, and hopefully by that time he hasn’t been cured of it. I can feel myself becoming more a part of him. I can’t sleep at night if he’s not around. I can’t sleep when he’s here, either, so I guess I’ll just enjoy the rest of life in a state of semi-somnambulism with my arms wrapped around him. This used to be all about fucking, but nowadays it’s more of a race against reality, with the two of us doing a relay race like rabbits around a loop that leads us nowhere but right back here, over and over again, for years now. Nothing changes when I’m here with him, while the rest of the world rots away. I can’t stand to be anything other than here with him. I would light the entire world on fire and watch it burn to the ground if I could just have this, here with him, forever.