Fuck it. This isn’t worth it anymore.
-Caulton

Guest post by Stan Laustin

This is fucking depressing. It’s been two weeks since my daily run to Starbucks, and I think my balls officially fell off. Caulton, get off your ass.

This is a razor. You rub it over your face and it makes you not look like a homeless dude begging for money on the L train. “Hello, my name is Caulton. I am newly homeless. If you could just spare a nickle or a dime or an apple, maybe I could not look like I’m a piece of crap after a girl breaks up with me.”

I think we should go up to the roof, say a few last words, and then I’ll push you off of it. I’ll send the picture of your corpse to Portland and when this girl sees it, maybe she’ll come back running. Then, you’ll have her back, right? This girl that left you in a miserable pile for weeks on end. Then you’ve won, right? That’s what really matters? I hope so, because here’s what I know– listen to me now: she’s not coming back.

The girl doesn’t come back. They never do. When they leave, they leave, and life goes on. You’re left wondering what you did wrong, what you said– where you went left when she went right. Maybe you could have been nicer, said “I love you” more. Maybe you could have done… anything. Anything at all for that one chance to pour your heart out to her, only to have her finally realize that you mean everything to her and if she would only just listen… Because she would see your face and your eyes and you’d take her hand and she’d wrap her arms around you in some meaningful, life-changing, synergistic moment. Two hearts, one heart. Two lives, one life.

They don’t come back, Caulton. And why would she? What would it matter anyway? What would it do? You’re still here in this office, staring out the window, thinking of all the stories out there. The people you’re not talking to. The things you’re not doing. The experiences you’re not having. The people you don’t screw, the girls you don’t kiss, the conversations you’re not having– listen to me. There’s 8 million people out there. 8 million men, women, lawyers, writers, dancers, painters, ballerinas, musicians, security guards, assistants, waiters– 8 million stories and you don’t know a damn one of them. New York City may be the only place in the world where if you’re on a street alone, you’re on the wrong street. There’s too many stories here to care about just one. There’s too many people here to lose all of your heart over just one.

They leave. They never come back. And when– not if– someone leaves, that’s it. And yeah, sometimes, you just might think you’re dying. You might feel like someone stuck their fist in your chest and gripped and twisted and pulled on your organs. You might feel like your throat is going to explode. And you might shed a tear. I’d tell you you’re better than that– that you’re stronger than that. I’d try to console and tell you she still loves you all that crap but how the hell would I know?

What I know is you smell like the back alley of a sushi bar in the middle of July. You’re a walking cliche.

When the girl is taken away, when it’s just you in all of your loneliness and hurt and pain and struggle and grey hoodies, what do you want? That’s the question, isn’t it? What is it that makes up Caulton Erhly? You find that out and a girl that picks up and leaves and takes your nuts with her doesn’t matter anymore. When you answer that question, your girl– your Portland– it’s just a girl in a place. Just like the millions of girls in all the places within a 3-mile radius. What? What do you think I’m gonna say? Her story doesn’t matter? Fuck if I know. Don’t know don’t care. You shouldn’t either.

I can take you up to the roof. I can push you off. I can tell you it’s going to be okay. But in any case, I’ll just be putting this off.

You’re fired.

Back to that razor. A good one is $8 at Duane Reade. A crappy one is 2 for $1 and three days of razor burn. Shave already, will ya?