downward spirals projecting at the speed of life.

I want to tell him that she’s not the answer. He was rejected again, passed the letter on to all of us to read, the “disgruntled 20 something engineers” group of six who ridicule and joke and bitch and complain all day in an attempt to create drama, something interesting and alive. And he’s sad, again, and letting us know. He placed all his eggs of love unparalleled in her basket of friendship, and they broke, once again. And he’ll probably take out his aggression tonight at a strip club, dropping 3 hundao on some daft whore who’ll pretend to be interested, who’ll find his weakness and feed off of it like a vampire. And it won’t be the first or even second time. He’s addicted to strip clubs and they know it. They smell him as a hound hot on the tail of a fox. And he’ll be weak, downtrodden and forlorn. After ingesting 4 or 5 vodka tonics, making 4 or 5 trips to the ATM, and offering to give four different strippers a ride home, he’ll attempt the hour and a half commute back North. In a drunken haze, he’ll reach in desperation for his cell phone, drunk dialing the one who used to love him: the one who cheated on him with two dudes, one of which was the pizza delivery man, in the same weekend. She’ll tell him off, hurtful words will be exchanged, tempers will boil, and nothing will have been accomplished. Provided he makes it home, he’ll be late to work, piss off his boss, and will have learned nothing from the events of the day prior. He will have spent the money originally allocated for a missionary trip to Mexico, thus preventing him a spirit building weekend away from the distractions and temptations of everyday American life. Creditors will call and he’ll continue to fall deeper down the rabbit hole until the light is but a pinhole in a sphere of darkness. Time will progress and he’ll continue travel down the up escalator, passing his friends and co-workers, attempting to grab the sweater of any nubile young thang who happens to share a glance. His heart will grow colder, his body older, and his follies bolder, until luck runs its course and shit hits the fan.

He’ll wake up, give up, or fall asleep. “She’s not the answer, wake your broke ass up,” I want to say. But I’ve done it time and time again and nothing’s registered.

Projecting happiness, hoping to be redeemed through someone other than oneself is a lesson which takes helpless romantics years to understand.

Such is life.

Such is strife.

Such is a state of spiritual blindness.