A couple days after Greg overdosed, I told my ex-girlfriend that I refused to go to his funeral with her. I was hurt and angry that Greg and I hadn't talked in a year, because he did too much heroin, and even after I learned he got cleaned up, we still didn't talk, and then he was dead.

In the back of my head, maybe I was angry he'd "stolen" you from me. I don't know.

The night before his funeral I drank most of a bottle of whiskey with the girl I was fucking—not dating—and waved the bottle at her as I screamed, "I'm not your goddamn boyfriend," over and over.

Once I was done we fucked.

At one point I went to roll her over—she was on top—and ran out of bed. We plummeted to the floor, me falling on top of her, my foot slamming down on the hardwood, jamming my big toe.

The pain stiffened the rest of my body to attention, and I stood up, suddenly significantly more sober. I knew instantly that my toe was broken. A static came over me, I was hair defying gravity, those moments before your body wants you to know you're broken — anxiety made my chest feel like molded red Jello being punctured by a plastic spoon.

I helped the girl up, pretended nothing was wrong. We finished fucking. The next day my big toe was a swollen monster that refused to move. It was a bright red at first, before it started to turn dark purple, almost black.

The girl complained, "My back is sore. Why is my back sore?"

She then turned around, naked from the waist up, and I saw the bruises. A couple of big ones up by her shoulder blades. I peered at them, wondering how the hell I was gonna get outta this relationship, noticing that the bruises looked like red balloons against a peach colored sky.

Did you go to Greg’s funeral? I don’t know – we weren’t talking back then.

Jesus Christ I wish we were talking back then.

- MJ