you really got a hold on me

drunk slut. bitchass. whore. motherfucker. cunt. dick.

We call each other names. In jest, of course.

We throw fists, slaps, kicks. Never enough to really hurt anyone.

This is how our friendship is. Tough love.

I love the way it is.

Loved the way it was, I guess I should say.

I'm leaving in four days.

The last time I saw you, it wasn't a very significant event.

The last two times I saw you, you wouldn't even get up out of your seat

to give me a goodbye hug.

I'll be gone for six months.

I know I'll be back, but I still would have liked a big bear hug.

When I drink, sometimes I text you.

You're usually asleep, but I never thought you'd be so irritated by it.

I know that last night's string of texts was the result of binge drinking,

but couldn't you have at least ended it with the reassurance that it was all in jest?

Because at that point, I honestly couldn't tell.

Why do I care so much? I don't want to care at all.

I'm upset over something you don't even realize.

This apology shouldn't even be necessary, I know, I know.

But can't you just tell me that you hate me because I'm leaving?

Or that you'll miss me, you drunk slut?

Damn you.

You really got a hold on me.