Not Fine

You asked me if there was something wrong with me. I said I was fine.

But I'm not.

I try to go on with my life, with the crap we have to do every day, with a smile on my face and a beer in my hand. But sometimes it's just too much. This kind of job's not for everyone, that's the first thing you told me. But that's not what's been bothering me lately.

I would've never thought this shit could still happen to me, but it did. I really thought I'd become impervious to these things, what with all that's been going on in my life, and all the things I've seen and done. But life's like that: a fucking bitch.

Come on, I mean, I've already given more than enough to this shit cause. So many times when I was young I can't remember. Well, maybe it really wasn't the real deal… But when you're a kid, don't they say every time's true love?

I'm not a prude or anything, far from it. Don't get me wrong, I like sex and lots of it, I'm just not too fond of any sort of strings attached to it. And general rule, I think I go by just fine avoiding them and still getting my candy. Without paying for it, that is. I mean, look at me; nobody would turn that down, after all.

You shouldn't want to turn me down either. But for the love of, you do. And it's driving me fucking crazy here. Seriously man, it's really not doing wonders to my record. If not for me, or you, at least do it for the goddamn company!

You of all people should know that frustrated employees in this business means trouble, for them and you. You could just terminate me, I know, but you just couldn't. You consider us family, we all know that.

It just kills me, you know? Seeing you with her, all the fucking time, attached at the hip, like the fucking lovebirds that you are. She likes to parade you around. I suspect you let her do it, even if it bothers you a lot, because you love her and all. You're not really the flamboyant type, after all.

But I know you best, dammit. If it were me, I wouldn't flaunt you anywhere. I'd much rather have you over and over again until we both can't stand and speak. Behind closed doors. Or not, if I find you have an exhibitionist streak under that suit…

I know what your favourite colour is, which tea you take when, what you did before you became a Turk, who was your first kiss. I know you. You shouldn't want someone like her, you just shouldn't. It goes against everything you are, the very essence of you.

Why should you want to settle down? Contemplate marriage and having a family? You like your job too much to give it up, and these things are too rigorously incompatible to let you have both.

And what's that I constantly hear about candlelight dinners and cuddling in front of the fireplace? I mean, could you get any worse? You hate dinners for two and any unnecessary prolonged physical contact. (Sex doesn't count, it does have a point: sex.)

I can't go on like this man, really. I see you in my soup, in my fucking godsend Friday pints. You should at least have the decency to leave me the fuck alone at night. Honestly, is that too much to ask?

And you don't have to say it, or sugarcoat it, I know my track record is awful. I fuck up more missions now than any rookie because I'm always looking out for you. Me! Looking out for somebody else's ass! For your ass, that's what makes it all the more sillier.

Rude's been pissed at me a lot lately because I've been fucking up much more than usual. I usually can get away with a lot of crap I pull, but now I can't even fly properly, can't shoot my gun right, can't focus in meetings because I always find myself staring at you or thinking about you.

You should kick me in the gut like the goddamn lovesick puppy that I am. Put a bullet through my brain, or something. It's not functioning right anyways. Fuck, look at what I've become! I'm fucking pathetic, man.

I can't help it. You're just the nicest thing I've ever seen, inside and out. You should at least take the blame for that. It can't all be my own goddamn fault in this messed up situation, right?

Because sometimes your hand lingers too long on my arm, and your eyes sparkle when we shower after training, and you smile more often when I'm around.

Or maybe that's what my depraved brain wants to see, I'm not denying anything.

I have a good life, I do. Pay's good, sex's often, and everything else is pretty much alright. Gaia, I hate my life. I can't stand not telling you, being around you all the time knowing you love her, you not telling me off once and for all.

I find myself hoping through my misery. And Gaia knows I hate it. I'm just a right hopeless hopeful idiot. Can't do a thing about it.

I hate myself when I'm like this (all of the time). I feel so… weak. It's like I get depressed over the most insignificant and absurd things, like when you water your plants or when I drink coffee in the morning.

You're my best… everything, man. And it's fucking killing me.