Unruly, reckless, wretched

Our weather is strangling. Only tonight, after a fair amount of time has passed, that I'm supremely pissed at you all over again. Would you have reacted differently if I had just looked you dead in the eye and said "yes, all those songs are about love because that is what comes to mind when I think of your face, your shy, unsure mannerisms. How I could tell that you were nervous and I crushed your mojo (or whatever it is that you have) and yet you were the one making me nervous...which rarely happens in such situations. Obviously...obviously...that's all I can say. And you stopped coming in. You fucking wretched asshole. I am one glass of wine away from walking up and down 3rd south clear north to south temple and the east streets in between drunkenly singling all of the songs on YOUR mixtape until you fucking show yourself and tell me why. Tell me why you stopped coming in. I need a funeral for a customer; you made yourself that: a customer. No longer this sweet, calm, shy, handsome man who I know nothing about other than you order a tall coffee and you maybe? went to Stanford based on the lanyard you wear that holds your military ID. I have that choked feeling one gets right before the tears come, right before the snow falls, if it decides to fall.