Many years ago, when I became indestructibly smart about "love," I placed all my hopes in a green, antique bottle that had a distinct crack on its butt (so that I could tell it was mine). I threw the bottle in the ocean and willed it to drown because, after seven years of research, I found that the smartest thing to do is to never hope. That way, the chances of my heart being crushed were reduced to 30%. I believed that it was a significant amount, owing myself a 70% possibility of non-heartache.
Last year, I was diagnosed with a chronic relapse. My trip home was propelled by empty hopes. Empty, I tell you, empty. I didn't know it then, until I reached my destination in a fat-filled, dreamy state. Thirteen days later, the bastard screwed me over. With no strength left to be angry, I went in search for the cause of my ailment that led me back to my vicious cycle.
It turns out that the crack on the green bottle's butt was big enough to allow some of the hope to seep through. Unfortunately, the bottle fought for its existence by breathing through the crack in its butt and let some of the hopes out so that it would be light enough to float back to its owner, who is sorry little moi.
I have it with me today. And I am pissed. I know that if I throw it back, it'll just haunt me when I least expect it. Even if I use bubble gum to seal the crack.
I am ready to sleep, with the bottle of hopes in my right hand. My other hand is clenching my chest, because I am beginning to feel the pangs of the relapse. It's not "chronic" this time. I "hope."
Oh, the reason why the green bottle has a crack on its butt is because I hit myself over the head with it once, ok, twice.
So much for being indestructibly smart.
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