Wait. What. Again?!

Regardless of happens in the weekend afterwards, regardless of where I end up at which time of the night and with whom and all that irrelevant jazz: The weeknights before are an entirely shitty chapter upon themselves.

See, this is me: Lying on the couch at what, eleven p.m., iPod on, a sore throat, down with the flu, and also with two bags of ice over my knees. Sure, big news there. As if all that he-man running in the park at night, more often than not in the rain, wouldn´t amount to this. But this is not even like, the top-offender this time around: What really bugs me is this coin I have in my hand, and this thing I keep doing with it, every night, with this deadbeat, bored look on my face, in which I just keep passing it in-between my fingers, dancing over my phalanges.

I´ve figured that, if I repeat it enough times, it oughtta be enough to make it true: That I´m not heartbroken, that I haven´t just fallen for a girl after she´s boarded a plane to live in a different country to go live with someone else, that I´m just lonely tonight and a little frustrated because I´m over 30 years old and that it´s just the painkillers talking, anyway.

There´s all these things I should have told F. before she went, and all these things I should have done instead of acting like a total jackass at the nightclub last week and... Oh crap. Crapcrapcrap.

It´s gonna be like this for a while, right?
It´s always like this for a while, but then it passes, too.

PS: (Somewhere in the back of my head, a choir twenty thousand voices strong chant in unison: I told you so).