thinking about wallace wells. thinking about going through hook ups like tissue paper, never believing anybody will stick around besides scott, who's here only because he has nowhere else to go, and you let him stay anyway even though he doesnt pay the rent. one of the only consistent people in your life, someone you might've actually genuinely liked straight up dying and leaving you with a sudden void of an empty apartment and a cold spot in a futon. thinking about immediately getting wasted and bringing a guy home, someone whose name you won't remember but it's okay because youre only in it for the sex— you dont believe in sparks, after all. believing that scott's conception of his one true girl was a joke because you just don't think you'll ever love anyone like that. kissing someone on a movie set because it's something to do, because he's dressed in the costume of somebody you cared for, because it's all manufactured, false realities and layers of separation deep enough for you to brush off his pleas for connection. thinking about going to paris after everything, the city of love, as tacky as that is, saying you're only there to spend money. but despite the insistence on irony you meet a guy— a fellow canadian, actually, twin foreigners in an unfamiliar place. someone who actually wants to stick around, who follows you through the city to see the sights and seems to genuinely like you. it can't be genuine, though— can't possibly be a reason to stay beyond a few hookups. so you stop at the river and you kiss him to get it over with...