They say drunkenness is the cure for love, that the medication of inebriation will dissolve those feelings, dilute them until they’re barely noticeable.

They say, have a drink, have more, drink enough and your love will sink to the bottom of the bottle and drown, this is the cure.

So now I’m drunk. And it’s all…bullshit.

Getting drunk doesn’t erase you, doesn’t stop me from loving you, or stop the hurt from happening. It just hardens the hole in my gut. I love you, but I don’t care that I love you. But God, I fucking love you.

My heart is not a tap you can turn on and off.

It’s so fucking crazy to me that people say we choose who we love and how we love them and when and whether.

As if I can just give myself a stern talking to, sit myself down and say, “Stop feeling so fucking sad every time you think about the unending impossibility, and the universe’s trend toward entropy, and how the two of you were brought together only so it could tear you apart.”

And that would fix it, knit me back together, willpower and grit and good old-fashioned self-medication.

I’m drunk and dumb and I hate myself.

Because every time I fall in love, I never have any goddamn choice.