You Feel Hopeless and Homeless and Lost in the Haze of the Wine

Maybe Matt Bergbusch was foreshadowing Friday night when he asked "who has all your lost or stolen socks?" and I said "Brendan Collins". Miraculously, after stumbling out of a club with my face in a fucking bag supported by a person I don't even know, I still have my house keys in my pocket. I still have my cards, my phone, my money, my earphones and even my fucking lip balm. I somehow managed to get my scarf, my jacket and my hat on. But I went home today with no socks. I lost them somewhere at Brendan's house.

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Are they laughing at me? I asked. I stepped in a giant puddle. I was bent over, my knees seemed to be going on opposite directions, I just saw feet and heard voices, my face in that bag.

No, she said, no one is laughing at you.

Her voice was smooth, honest.

But they were probably judging me, I thought.

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It starts sometime around midnight. I'm trying to tell someone to "meet me halfway". The thing is, I don't know where halfway is. I don't know where I am, where I stand or what I want. I'm thinking that "cmonqrrw were all in between just meet me halfway" is not very romantic.

I'm laughing and crying today. I find myself ridiculous, and hopeless. And I realize this is all very real and I'm on the verge of breaking through or breaking down.

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Elliott Smith glorified walking between the bars.

I've been out haunting the neighborhood
and everyone can see I'm no good
when I'm walking out between parked cars
with my head full of stars.

There was nothing glorious about the way I was carried what seemed like one hundred miles to the car. Strong hands held me, someone I didn't know.

Why are you doing this, I asked.

Why, why in the world would this stranger pick me up off the floor and drag me somewhere safe. I know I said ridiculous things like Don't leave me! and clung to her body looking for some kind of primeval comfort that I'm too shy to ask for when I'm sober. But she never even needed to come near me in the first place.

Because you're the most beautiful girl here tonight. And we have the same name!

I don't know how beautiful I was trying to choke air down while coughing my stomach up but it's hard to disagree with someone when they kiss your disgusting face and hold your hand and tell you that it's fine and tell you that it's okay, it's okay it happens to everyone.

I don't even know what she looked like.

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I've been trying to force something that's not there. I know I should let it go but I can't because I'm horribly overbearing and hopeful and desperate. This is my ballad of big nothing.

and you walk
under the streetlights
and you're too drunk to notice
that everyone is staring at you
and you don't care what you look like
the world is falling around you

you just have to see her

you know that she'll break you in two.

I would live for that glance, that one look where our eyes connect for a split second before people pass between us. Countless poems and songs have been written about that moment. Romantics die for that moment.

But that moment didn't happen because you were nowhere and I could barely open my eyes.

Good thing too, because I wouldn't want you to see me that way.

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It's embarassing, it's humiliating. It's public shame that I probably deserved for not knowing my limits, or not obeying them.

But it's funny how at one of my lowest moments someone came out of nowhere, lifted me onto my feet and said I was beautiful. I was trying to lie down and die and she wouldn't let me.

So there's proof that good people do exist. Though it would probably be better to forget that night -- and the details are hazy now at best -- I don't want to forget the random act of kindness bestowed on me by a complete stranger.

Next time I see someone puking their brains out I will carry them home and tell them that they're beautiful and everything's going to be all right.

(via)