The record needle scratched at the end of the record. The popping sound would have signaled to the listener to get up and flip the 45. This listener, me, won’t. The whiskey in my hand, and the whiskey in my bloodstream, all seemed to be ok with the sound of the needle scratching the last groove. The quiet popping seemed to be the perfect soundtrack to my drunken misery. 

The apartment, my apartment, looked like a wild animal had chosen it as a den. It was trashed, to say the least. In better times I would have called it rockstared. Now it just spoke of loneliness and desperation. 

She’d married that fucker. A fucking accountant. Really? That’s what you settled for? Fuck me. 

I can see her now, through the haze of time and drink, smiling in my bed. I can see her writing me a letter while I’m at work, caring to write each word in delicate hand. I always found the content a bit self-aggrandizing, never failing to mention implicitly or often explicitly how good she was to me. 

I could almost see what she would have written about today. 

“Hey! I know you’re getting wasted now, but I’m thinking of you. I decided to spend my life with a boring accountant instead of you. How lucky he is hehehe. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. There’s an open bar at the reception in your honor, what a good person I am to think of you on my, underlined for effect, wedding day. See you soon!”

See you soon, I snorted, yeah see you in hell, bitch. 

I took a healthy pull to finish the bottle. Today, I decided when I woke up, I’m gonna get drunk. So drunk I can’t remember her, her face, how she moaned my name when she came, how she smelled. None of that shit. She’s made her bed, her accountant bed, let her fucking lie in it. 

She chose boring safety over the risk of what we could have had. I snorted again at the thought, I lifted my head to look at the trashed apartment and the shirtless drunk on the sofa in the middle, yeah this. This is what she could have had. Life with a worthless drunk that slept around whenever he could. 

But fuck, at least its better than a fucking accountant. 

I laughed at the thought. Her in a wedding dress, him in a boring suit. She’d never have me, I smiled at the selfish delusion. She had her chance and couldn’t tolerate me, the promise of my greatness wasn’t enough to put up with the long road to those heights. Fine, whatever. Take your accountant. I’d say take him deep but I doubt he’s got the equipment. Take your stable boring life. Take your standard, bland dinner with an occasional can of nice, mass-produced beer. Have your life. I might be miserable and drunk, but at least I feel. Nothing numb here. 

I would say enjoy the numbness of such a life, but I doubt she will feel enough to enjoy. I’ll take my misery any day over that shit. 

“Right booze,” I said aloud to the bottle. A profound and all-encompassing silence answered back from the cold apartment.  

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