Good Love, Bad Timing, Worse Vodka

It was one of those Sunday nights—the kind that hum low and quiet, like the calm before some kind of storm. The vodka had just started whispering, and I was doing what people like me do when the silence gets too loud—scrolling through music, chasing ghosts.

I stumbled across a recent performance by Counting Crows on the Howard Stern Show. They covered Taylor Swift’s The 1, then bled right into A Long December. And just like that, I was 22 again—nursing a warm beer, high on heartbreak, tangled up in a kind of love that burns hot, fast, and reckless. The kind that leaves a mark, like a cigarette pressed into velvet.

Back then, music wasn’t just background—it was survival. Counting Crows weren’t just a band; they were a season, a mood, a girl who didn’t love you back the way you needed, but damn if you didn’t keep trying anyway. And when I heard The 1, it hit me like it always does—that deep ache. That unanswerable question: If just one thing had been different… would everything have been different?

You never really get to know.

In your twenties, life feels like an open tab—endless, intoxicating. Everything is possible. Then one day, the bill shows up. Jobs. Marriages. Breakups. Betrayals. Lawyers. Mortgages. Funerals. Therapy. The slow fade from “anything can happen” to “I guess this is it.” Somewhere along the way, love turns from firestorm to fine print. From poetry to policy. If you’re not careful, it becomes a con.

I think about the women I loved. Really loved. Not the flings or the mid-divorce patchwork—but the ones who lived in my bloodstream. The ones who made the air heavier when they left the room. I wonder where they are now, if they ever think about me. Sometimes I feel something. Most times I don’t. And that’s what no one tells you—how someone who once occupied your every thought becomes just another name, another ghost. A soft scar.

And then there are the others. The ones who never apologize. The ones who lied with a smile and held your heart like a hostage. I gave everything to someone like that once. Thought I could love the poison out of her. Thought if I just stayed steady, she’d steady too. I was wrong. When the mask slipped, what I saw wasn’t broken. It was empty. She wasn’t misunderstood—she was just hollow.

Now, I don’t feel heartbreak. I feel pity. And relief.

So here I am—older, maybe not wiser, standing at the edge of something new. Like a man testing the depth of a pool with his toe before he jumps. I’m excited. I’m uncertain. But I’m still here. Still showing up. Still believing in the long shot.

Because even if it ended—especially if it ended—it still mattered. Maybe that’s the trick: to love hard, lose harder, and still keep a little space carved out for whatever might come next. A flicker of hope. A maybe.

Like the song says:

Maybe this year will be better than the last.
And I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass.

Maybe California. Maybe redemption. Maybe another round.

The greatest loves of all time are over now.

But that doesn’t mean the story’s finished.

Not even close.