I wrote this back in July, but didn't post it. Here you go.
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Hi, my name is Bud, and I’m an addict.
On this date in 1998, I had my first hit of “Her.” Like
some RomCom cliché, I saw her across a smoky back yard at an anniversary party.
It was lust at first sight. And, when I got close enough to look in her eyes, I
was in love.
We were so different – think Dharma and Greg – and yet
meshed so well. She inspired so many words, and left me speechless. She filled
my spirit even as she took away my breath. It was, I thought, what love was
supposed to feel like.
Sadly, unlike in Hollywood, the boy didn’t get the girl.
The boy got hurt over and over. He’d (in a manner of speaking) lose the girl,
she’d go away for a while – sometimes years – and he would make strides toward
healing. But again and again she’d return, and he’d fall under her spell once
more. The boy is, admittedly, not very bright.
There were too many days when I didn’t care if I woke up
in the morning. And, despite a fairly impressive collection of writing
(quantity, if not quality) inspired by my first muse, I still wake up depressed
that I have to drag myself through another day.
A few months ago, with the unwitting help of her latest
boyfriend, I got clean. Of course, clean is a relative term. Like any addict, I
know I’ll never be free of temptation. The danger of relapse lurks everywhere;
in scores of songs and movies; in a thousand memories, and even in the words
dripping from my own pen.
I’m better than I was, but I am still damaged. I am a
junkie, and “Her” is my drug.
“I thought I knew what love was. What did I know? Those
days are gone forever. I should just let ‘em go.”
