There’s something illustrious about failure in 2015, in the way that it careens through these city streets so carefree. Clad in rags like Cinderella, but the fairy godmothers of booze and cocaine makes everything seem prettier and shinier. Maybe it’s me, but maybe it’s the well rehearsed dose of charisma and smiles that makes me see bright lights in dark places. I can’t tell if I’ve been conned because the con is that sweet, or if I’ve been conned because I wanted to be conned in the first place. I shudder at the sound of ice cubes clinking around in a drink, because that is the sound that will always remind me of what it feels like to fall in love with yet another grinning addict. All these addicts, tucked away in these bars and looking for hearts like mine. And me, falling for it every time because it’s simpler to believe in love when you know it never exists. There’s something easy about pretending to love someone who can never love himself, mostly because you never have to fully commit to the sham of loving someone who can never understand or feel love in the first place. Until, of course, the day when I wake up and grow tired of this altered reality, so I call myself a victim of the chicanery of another person’s addiction. And I walk away, and I find enough little lies left over in that rotting situation so I can still feel good about myself the next day.