This town is no longer mine, it's fucked with me for the last time.

Text message. Text message. Phone call. Verbal request. All throughout the day, the same invitations: Cambie tonight! Coming downtown for the show? You better be at Battle of the Bands tonight, you douchebag! And so, although I had triple booked myself, I decided to go downtown. Cat-Rine picked me up and I drank beer in her car, watching the rain slide down the window, wanting to be out in it. A pause for drum kits and awkward hello's, and we were on our way. I crammed a few Lucky into Cat-Rine's purse and we walked into the bar, waving to a few randoms drunk enough to accompany a beer and the five other people in the bar at 10:00. Within half an hour, a steady stream of bodies pushed through the small front door to join us, and as soon as the Dastardlies were on stage, the place was full and sweaty and loud. I screamed my support at the front of the stage, and zapped back and forth between the smoke pit and various pods of friends strewn about the floor. There were so many people there, it was enlivening and exhausting. Pocketing numbers, slow-pouring smuggled beer, raising eyebrows and smiles in joy at seeing an old buddy, passing out smokes like party favours, and then....you. As if I thought nothing could pinhole the balloon of happiness hugging close to me, you sauntered in with your air of unjustified self-worship and began floating around the bar clutching your beer. Out of idiocy or perhaps the half-cut buzz, I confronted you, maybe I even hoped that a fraction of our so-called friendship was salvagable, but by God I was mistaken. In the typical overreactive fashion that I have become so used to seeing in you, you yelled something about no one understanding you, then took off inside the bar. Later on, when your temper had subsided, you tried again, but I'd had enough. I'm done. Not worth it, sorry.
From the bar I called your house, invited myself over, and caught a ride in the steadying rain. I was pretty drunk, after the confrontation I needed to down a few to provoke forgetfulness...or at least that lovely numb feeling that drowns your attempts to care. Your house was buzzing with good people and good music, most of it all a blur within a couple hours. I fought someone and lost, I think I may have cleaned the kitchen again, too. Two-trick pony when I drink.
"So, do you know that guy?"
"Yeah, unfortunately..."
"Uh..."
"He's my ex, that's all. Other than that, he's a good guy. Go for it."
And so you did, in the kitchen, on the couch, and conveniently anywhere I could see you out of the corner of my eye. I'm happy for you, at least it kept you away from me.
Slowly, people started draining out the front door until we were left, hand in hand, at the top of the stairs. Beer cans littered the ground like relics, a few hard-cores had passed out on the couches, and the room smelled like liquor and stale conversation. Another successful soiree. And the night just got better from there.