In one night, I lost five years of my life. Here’s what I know …
I was homeless.
I’m a recovering drug addict.
My inked skin crawls from lustful eyes.
I have a serious aversion to women.
My gay partner is a home wrecker.
I own a gun and I’m a damn good shot.
I’m a makeup artist, but it’s an insult to my talent.
I’ve never wanted to possess anything except my Ducati … until I met Darby.
Now here’s what I know since that day in the ER when she pieced me back together … nothing—but a few random thoughts.
My new “friend” is distracting, clingy, and obsessed with acronyms, emojis, and phrases like “breakfast soul mates.”
I didn’t want to like her, but she crawled under my skin and swallowed me whole. Now we’re best friends and she’s my new addiction. I'd drink her from a shot glass, snort her up my nose, or inject her into my veins if I could. What I won’t do … is ever tell her that.
She doesn’t know me … I don’t know me. When those missing years come back, I think she will hate me … I think I will hate me.
My parents named me Patrick Roth, and this is my story.