Broken hearts, brand-new starts: a letter to the Captain

I’ve never done this with anyone before. I mean, I’ve never been in a relationship or anything even close to one for longer than, like, a week, so, um, here it goes…

My heart is engorged with emotion as I write this, Captain. The time has come. Every young man reaches a point in his life when he must part with what he knows, what he is most comfortable with. Some might think embarking on a new journey is akin to setting sail in unchartered waters, but I prefer to think of my transition into this next stage of my life as hopping on a power scooter and popping wheelies into the sunset. A sunset with better alcohol choices.

You see, we had good times. Through you I realized my deep love for spiced rum, which in turn led me to an even greater love for darker liquors. I came to college having minimal experience with white rum and vodka. White rum has sweetness, but vodka makes my tum tum feel icky. Blame it on Crystal Palace, blame it on that goose that never quite had me feeling loose, it doesn’t matter; choosing vodka as your go-to alcoholic beverage over rum, gin, tequila, bourbon, whiskey, whisky, air freshener, furniture polish, Windex, Clorox or fermented apple juice, is like being that four-year old who wastes away eating nothing but microwaveable smiley-face potato products and white bread. Sure it quells the burning in your stomach, but I mean, there’s gotta be more to life.

Anyway…thank you.

Thank you for giving me the courage to sloppily dance the night away around a group of my inebriated peers. I’ve been told I’m a good dancer, but I’ve also been called clumsy and slightly unlovable, so who’s to say? Regardless, I was never not able to get my swerve on with you by my side. Yeah it was lonely on the dance floor—those around me smashing faces with each other were probably having a grander time, but hey, we tried right? No one can say we never fucking tried.

But sometimes you get tired of trying, you get tired of being disappointed, Captain. And I think we can both agree that our time together hasn’t always been fun. Perhaps that’s why I decided to stray. For the love of God, you aren’t as sweet as you let on. When left to chill on your own you’re as smooth as the crystalline surface of a frozen lake, but you lack that spark and depth I’ve grown to love you for; however, your personality is not that easy to swallow most of the time. It’s something I tend to forget about as the night goes on, but when we part for days and reunite on the weekend, I’m reminded of your flaws. I’m reminded that you’ll never quite love me the way I love you.

And so I must leave.

The world is larger than us, Captain. I’ve grinded with Jameson, shared emotional intimacy with Jim Beam, spent cool summer nights star gazing with Bacardi. I’ve brushed my teeth with Everclear and tested new territories with Jagar. I’ve pregamed with José and Patrón, fought with Tanqueray and fell into laughing fits with Kraken.

In short, Captain, I’m over you.

Well, I mean, you’re still better than vodka.

Miles better.

OK, so I won’t be able to quit you entirely. Forget I said that.

The point is, we should take a break. Yeah, that’s it! A break. Let’s call it a break. Um, is that cool? You do your thing, I do mine. Cool.

So, anyway, I’m awkward with goodbyes. I mean, I don’t have to tell you that, right? You were there that time I was so drunk I ended up helicoptering around my crush in the Mug, who responded by leaning into me and whispering, ever so softly into my ear, “You’re being a cockblock.” So, you know more than I do how I never know how to wrap things up.

Um, yeah. So feel free to direct any question to me. Oh, what’s that? N-n-no, there’s no Natty Light in my minifridge right now. Of course not! I just got done telling you how much I’m trying to improve my alcohol choices. Really, Natty has nothing to do with this. I’m an adult, I want to be an adult. What? I’m not sweating, you’re sweating! You, you, you!

Look. This is getting out of hand. I gotta be free. I’m about to graduate in four months, so I kinda need to get my shit together no matter how insurmountable that may be. Let’s go our separate ways. Let’s say farewell. Let’s—so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceasely into the past. That’s a classy way to break up, right?

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