Boujee Bussin Drip: The Art of Living Regretfully.

Begining

I'm now sitting, re-reading all of our old messages, looking at all the pictures (what little we had), and asking myself where it all went wrong. When the truth of the matter is, I already know where it all went wrong. Could even pinpoint the exact moment in time.

It all went downhill for her when she met me. Simple. I don't mean that as it sounds, well not exactly anyway. We could have been perfect, could have created the perfect life for one another.

I could imagine working the 9-5 job and enjoying the packed lunch that was lovingly prepared for me the night before, while longing to next see my companion, but unknowingly longing for her. Scoffing down my lunch in glee, arriving home to see her in the front room with our kid in a high chair. But I know now it was all just a beautiful lie. We met before our time. If we had, maybe met in 5-10 years, I think we would have made it, after we were done sorting all our shit out and just be able to be happy.

Being happy wasn't a struggle for her, she seemed to be able to enjoy the little things with such positivity in all her actions. It was me who had, and I guess still do to a degree, problems with enjoying the little things. I don't know why. Recently, I have found that just thinking positively seems to help a lot, but only when you're in front of people. Almost feel like I'm showcasing myself. When I'm home, alone, that's when it becomes a struggle again.

God, we had it so easy when we were kids, right? When we could just run around carefree and shit wherever we wanted. Now we just have to deal with other people's shit and not even the kind we can just wipe up and chuck out, but the kind that fucks with you, messes with the very core of your soul. Leaving you as nothing but a shell of what that child grew up to become. It's all bullshit.

I'm now sure I'm not the first person to go through a breakup with the person they believed to be "the one," but as I'm sure you can understand, it's just a ball-ache. Finding ways to distract yourself from just wallowing in self-pity and despair is incredibly difficult without finding some tiny, minuscule little reminder of the fact that you were once happy. Breaks you back down to a quivering wreck, and you find yourself hiding in some shitty bathroom cubicle with your head in your hands, questioning the existence of God or even just fate.

No? Is that just me, then? Fine, but I'm sure you can at least relate to it being difficult. My life hasn't exactly gone to plan, is what I'm trying to say. Does anyone's though? I'm starting to humor the idea now that life is simply what you make it. As before, I used to just like the idea that fate would guide you, that where you were meant to be or who you were meant to be with would just be shown to you in a mysterious, only you could decipher kinda way. But again, it's bullshit. If you leave it to fate, nothing will happen. Again, simple. Why would anything happen? If you just coast along thinking fate is just going to dish you up the perfect meal, you're an idiot. If you were to just walk into a restaurant - and I mean like a really good restaurant, the kind that when you're done eating, you wish you could void your bowels, gather up your shit (literally), then show it the respect it deserves with a Viking's burial.

So, if you just walked into this amazing restaurant and just ask for the best meal you'll ever have, they'll simply say, in a very politely condescending manner, "Do you have a reservation, sir" (always leaving a pause of a few seconds before saying "sir," as if they found it hard to distinguish you from a man or child), while smugly eyeing up your Adidas tracksuit. Then you would say, "No," maybe even try to grovel a little bit before finally accepting the offer of you leaving the restaurant. All of which could have been avoided if you had just simply phoned beforehand and made a reservation.

Life is a difficult thing, throw love into the mix then it becomes complete mayhem. Idolizing Hollywood is where I am going to put most of my blame as growing up, I was a huge film nerd. But the thing is with films, you'll never get the truth, just overly glorified sentimental bullshit that makes you change your knickers for the third time while watching The Notebook.

No one on this planet will put you first. The quicker we all realize that the easier we will find it to deal with our shit. We are all broken, we are all lost. Not one person has it worse than another, as perspective is just a matter of opinion. To an individual, a paper cut could be the most painful thing they've experienced all year but to another just watching, it is no more than a paper cut.

Love, to me, is a paper cut until you first notice that stinging sensation or see the tiniest droplet of blood, you don't know it's there. Once it's been noticed, it can't be forgotten. Maybe tonight, I will find love in somebody's arms, only for the night though. As love is best in small doses. Like Valium, just the right amount and you will ride that high to your own personal Shangri-La, too much, you're dead. There's no sign of when you will be overdosing either, just the feeling of numbness sweeping over your body until you are nothing more than just a shell.

Why do we let ourselves get so caught up in emotions that we allow them to change who we grew up to become? We become twisted and angry, untrustworthy and lustful all over the mention of a name. That name could be anyone as well, it doesn't always have to be a significant other. It could be the blonde girl you saw in your local shop, who was kind enough to show her beautiful smile when both your eyes met over the microwavable pizza you were grabbing to soothe your hangover. The eye contact felt like an eternity as if in a past life she was your one and only, and you were her bumbling idiot. Then to the counter, she goes to possibly never be seen again, leaving you overthinking all the situations and possible scenarios where you could have used that pair between your legs to ask her name, possibly her number. Instead, you now refer to her as Louise in your head, as you feel she looks like a Louise.