It was the night we raced through the Louvre. We wanted to beat the record, but we didn’t come close. It was more than a metaphor. It never happened. It never will. We didn’t know Paris together. I knew Paris alone; you didn’t know it at all. We knew New York City, but so do so many others. We are not special.
It was a February when we gave up the fight. Actually, that’s being dramatic. It was a fight that never existed, at least not on your end. I fought. But I only know how to fight. Kicking and screaming I came into this world; kicking and screaming has been my affliction ever since. It’s not pretty. It’s not glamorous. It just is… and you just happened to fall in the midst of my parade to the end.
I met you in a karaoke room on leap year, and that’s where I left you four years later. One could not have asked for a more poetic beginning and ending.
“You guys existed in a vacuum, a hole,” explained my friend Natalie, “It didn’t count. It was four years of vapid space.”
“That doesn’t make sense… I feel like you’re contradicting yourself.”
“But you know what I mean…”
“You do. Basically, it does count.”
Based on that, this is a series of stories that don’t count.
Yes, these stories to come don’t count… but at least I learned to love sushi.
“Favourite Food” by Tokyo Police Club: