Queer Drunk Drowning Cockroach

Queer. Sad. Alone in the dark. Pitiful. Predictable. Honestly, pathetic. Drinking vodka straight from the handle? Messy. And the vomit? Delicious.
Yes, I’m a cockroach. What about it?
Check the mirror. Naked, sobbing, rubbing yourself all over. Do you even remember throwing up the burger and fries you stress ate after yet another lowkey Brady hangout with no payload? I smelled the splatter down the hall and crawled in under the door. You didn’t see me. Now I’m in the sheets with you, and we’re getting cozy.
Hell knows why you’re so stuck on this Brady guy. Okay, so he’s smiled at you some, touched you once or twice, all that. And you have a certain vibe together, sure. Plus his chest. And his arms. And jawline. Alright, so he’s a score. Nothing to drink yourself silly over.
By the way, we’re not in your bed anymore. We’re on a beautifully-painted little boat gliding down a pastel stream. Somehow, I’m the one rowing. You’re majorly under the influence, but I’ve got you.
You can’t fully explain how you feel about Brady. I totally get that. Life is complicated. Men can be complicated. Maybe there’s a spark there. You’ve had some heat. Some possibility. You’ve felt something for him in your palms, your knees, your tongue. But you get that feeling quite a lot. Are you really gonna spiral every time a guy halfway puts it in you?
Listen, you and Brady are worlds apart. To him, you’re a water lily. He can admire your strokes and curves. He can brush his fingertips over your flecks of color, if he’s feeling flagrant. But can you really see him splashed across your canvas sunset?
Speaking of which, the sky’s ochre pink embers are draining. Tree blossoms are rotting, ripening to bile, choking up the breeze.
You’re churning, turning, trying to sit straight. You’re going for another drink. The vodka looks pure and clear, like fresh snow melt. It tears down like a landslide, subsuming us. Do you wonder whether Brady has ever been skiing? He’d enjoy the rush. He has the lust, the head for right here, right now. It makes him different. It opens him up.
Don’t sink down into all the words you could’ve said. Don’t agonize over the moments you could’ve closed in. Don’t roleplay his responses a million different ways. Don’t even think about all the things he could do with you. Just don’t.
Stars are swirling around us now. We’re really going through it. Just remember how small it all is. Consider Brady’s insignificance. Consider ours.
I can tell you’re still pining for him. You want him so hard. He wants you different. There’s your problem. And you can’t just play it straight with him. I get it. That’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to slobber all over his ego, to confirm everything he thinks he knows about the natural order. He gets off on you bent up on him. He loves that his gravity pulls you in. He gobbles up that power.
For me, I’ve had my fill of burger chunks. I need a drink.
The bottle is slick. I struggle at the rim. My stubby legs won’t pick up traction. But I can get into anything. And you need an intervention, something that distinguishes this from any other night drinking alone, a sign from the ugly bug gods that you need to take it easy.
And just like that, I’m in, sliding down the neck of the bottle, building speed, and then—plunk.
At first, it’s beautiful. Crisp and sharp and bright.
Then it burns, blistering all through me. On my back in the drink, my legs are useless. Some species evolved with wings. Must be nice. Most cockroaches only live for a year. Two, tops. But with so many of us out there, do we ever really die? We’re supposed to be impossible to kill, but a swift stomp usually does the trick. Or drowning.
That’s it for me, I think. A wide ocean sweeps beneath me, stretching away into nothing. I’ll let the soft undertow take me out.
And what about you? Don’t worry, you’re not gonna transform into a monstrous vermin. You’re nothing like Gregor Samsa. Much more to live for.
You’re gonna see my floating corpse and wonder how long you’ve been drinking cockroach cocktail. Maybe you’ll consider one last swig. Maybe you’ll ask yourself what you truly deserve. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll form a subliminal association between me and Brady, some deep psychic link forever lurking beneath his smooth, unbroken surface. Then you’ll have no choice but to let him go. And you’ll see how straightforward that choice can be.
You’ll be fine. You’ll wake up wiser. You’ll practice taking back from guys like Brady. You’ll come to enjoy it. And you’ll flush me down the toilet.