Love Don't Believe In Me

Right. I fucking hate the sun. Long live the beast. You are number 14 of people I hate most. And if your not people and really are a giant nuclear furnace, then there are a few people I wouldn't mind sending your way. Some will follow on my list and some won't. I can't be 100% honest here.
When I was a boy I often would play this game where I would imagine myself doing something extraordinary. I would go in my backyard and not really play or anything, just imagine. I would incorporate these massive landscapes and plot twists. I would suffer and I would rejoice.
As I got older I would play the same game. Except the backyard was replaced with school and heroic deeds of courage and sacrifice were replaced with the thoughts of girls. I would include passionately deep feelings and exceptional acts of consideration. I would give and receive.
I now play a game called life where, unlike the board game, nothing I dreamt before has come true. The end results are reversed. Now when I do something extraordinary, I give and receive. Now when I love I suffer and rejoice.
Years from now I will play a game called despise. I am a bitter young man. And I'm not that young anymore. I will be the guy who sits in his house and screams at kids who walk through his yard. That will be me. The old guy who buys a tall boy and a pack of smokes at 8 A.M. and then later screams at the bank teller for moving to slow, that will be me. I will hate and I will live.
After that I will play a game called self pity. I will drink and cry and whine about my station in life. I will recall days of youthful strength and wisdom beyond my years. I will remember and I will lament.
We have all met that man, and part of us hates him. We hate him and for good reason - his life never was as bad as he thought it was. But since I have yet to become that man, I need to ask you a favor. The next time you see that man think of me. Think of me and look at that man. If you look closely, you can see the day he lost his soul. It is written in our eyes. Because that day is all we think about.
Please do not pity him. Please do not offer assistance. Above all, please do not ask to hear his story. He will never tell you the truth, because the truth is too painful for him. Just know that once where the fragile shell of a drunk stands, once stood a mountain of love. And one day it stopped snowing on the mountain, so she stopped skiing. Or she stopped skiing so it stopped snowing. That is what he will never remember. And something I have yet to discern.