Here in this windowless room—not sure if it was the pale blue florescent lights—but I swore there were four of you. Anyway, we had a conversation, me standing and you—ever the lazy one—lying on the floor. I spoke and I spoke, and you listened and listened. I cried out to you and told you my story. You’ve always listened, you've always been there. However, you never respond. That's okay. I'm not much of a conversationalist anyway. You've seen me at my absolute worst, you’ve known all of my secrets, and still managed to stay and grow with me. Just when I think I'm hard on my luck and everyone’s gone, you’re still here, watching me, listening to me ramble, lying beside me and my vomit after a night of self-loathing and binge drinking. You just watched, like a never ending evaluation, drawing a conclusion one day of what a skeletal wreck I've made of myself and on another day, how much I've accomplished. I suppose, once my bones are old and weary and this heart of mine finally beats its last little tick, you'll stand up from beside my death bed, lean over and whisper, "You did alright in this life." And as the mist of my final breath passes through my old, cracked lips, you’ll leave me. Until then, you'll always be your lazy, examining, listening self, while I spin out of control or have the time of my life.
You my friend, are the most useless thing in the world—but ironically, the one who knows me