The bitterness flowed alongside the champagne. I let it all out. My mistakes, each and every fucked up opportunity, her right not to say anything and the betrayal I felt when she willingly chose to be silent. It was a definitive statement about her level of respect for me, just as my behavior was mine.

I felt as a puppet would at the end of a beautiful puppeteer’s strings.

“I should have trusted my gut about her. It’s not fucking right, right? What kind of twisted bitch does that?”

I went on about the fact that I still care when I shouldn’t give a shit. I still loved and retained some hope. In the process, I explained, I was fucking up even more.

“Fail on top of fail.”

Desperation spewed out of me with every sentence. I ended the year in a brilliant display of jilted man syndrome.

I returned immediately after the ball countdown. I visited the forum and checked her tumblr. My head was lead and I could scarcely coordinate myself. I stumbled to the bathroom and masturbated to the thought of bending her over the couch. When I was done I took a shakily aimed piss.

The water cascaded over my chest hair this morning, as I showered. I watched it for a while. It looked like seaweed in the waves.