You can’t show up drunk anymore. I can’t take care of you all night once every few weeks. I can’t love you. I can’t watch you push and pull away. It leaves me feeling a sort of terrible. I don’t manage very well, and I’m trying so hard to live a good life. I know you are, too, but you’re right: you can’t care for me in the capacity that I need.
So do as you do. Whatever happened between you and me truly doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you get a little better, and a little better, and a little better still. What matters is I can allow my guts to connect to a person who is capable of caring back. Take care of yourself, and please please please: Just be safe.
—Apocalypse snacks
This article appears in Jun 28 – Jul 4, 2018.