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Vices.
We all have them. Some of us drink ourselves dumb, deaf,
and blind. Some of us smoke pack after pack of cigarettes until our lungs collapse from the invasion of nicotine. Some of
us smoke...well, other things. Some of us stick needles in our veins, snort white powder up our noses, or swallow little purple
pills to enhance our senses. I suppose I should have been glad that he didn't have any of those vices anymore.
I wasn't.
Oh,
that's not to say that he hadn't done the drugs and the drinking. That's not to say that I'd never stood behind him with a
washcloth, wiping his forehead while he prayed to the porcelain god. I had.
Looking back, I think we should've stuck
to the drugs. Drugs were so much easier. At least those addictions are obvious.
But no, his vice had nothing to do
with artificial substances.
Well, that's a lie. His vice had everything to do with artificial substances. His vice
was artificial love.
From experience, I can tell you that drugs are a hell of a lot more favorable. I'd rather date
a drug addict. At least a drug addict can love you back without pretending.
To this day, I like to think that he can
love. He's far too good at pretending, though, and I'm far too good at being realistic.
Looking back, I should've known
that we didn't have love. I should've known that the relationship wasn't going anywhere.
Don't get me wrong; he didn't
cheat. I suppose that surprised me the most. He didn't need another woman. He didn't need another relationship, another plight
of passion and play.
He didn't need me either.
He made me need him instead. His smile, his butterfly kisses
every morning, the way his hair stuck out in all directions when he first parted with the pillow, his no-nonsense words of
wisdom when I needed advice. I should've known when all of his idiosyncrasies deepened my sense of endearment that we were
headed for disaster.
I didn't. See, he wasn't headed for disaster. He had no reason to be headed for disaster. After
all, he didn't need me.
To this day, I wish he did.
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