There is a peculiar fallacy of friendship in the valley. It goes something like this:
I drink with you once and we’re best friends forever.
[Party Hard, Rock and Roll (Drink Bacardi, Smoke a Bowl)]
Here’s my number, what’s yours, let’s ride tomorrow?
Right on brother, shred the gnar and hit the pow.
(It’s like every day’s our last and you’re the one I want to spend it with.)
And one or three or six months later you’re gone, I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.
Or maybe just different, whatever playtime we had is gone.
I remember you like a dream I once had, an enigma of a friend, a shadow, no doubt, the one but just for then.
Here, people are in and out of your life like tidal waves. Here today and gone tomorrow.
One day you have a friend, a best friend, a lover, an acquaintance.
And the next day, you have nothing but your half-empty bottle and an empty stomach, which pangs briefly and then it’s on to the next one. Serial killing friends or something like that.
You’d like to think you get a little wiser each time, since you know it’s going to end anyway.
But it’s a vicious and unavoidably repetitive cycle: as soon as you have it, it’s gone.
(I can’t find it, I never had it)
We are given a brief illusion of stability and happiness, surrounded by people just like ourselves, all the while knowing we’ll forget each other come April or May.
A whole new crew of misfits due to arrive any day.
This bottle’s almost empty, someone come back and help.