The C-word

I am having a drink.
My usual drink of choice is shots of tequila but I couldn't feel the square shape of Jose Cuervo amongst the bottles in the darkness of my coat closet. For now I'm taking swigs of whatever is in my flask. Ciroc? I dunno.

One of my closest friends is the farthest away from me. By thousands of miles (Literally. The military takes you way too far from home to do a lot of nothing). In the distance, there is seemingly a lot to be said and once one topic is exhausted another is started.
Today's topic: The C-word.
Children.
Apparently, my dream of a brood of 4-6 is slowly fading as my age progresses. I'm 26. 37 year-olds who are trying to get drunk enough to get the courage to pop holes in  a condom and trap their blind date hate me. My age doesn't make it any less easy to deal with.
But, yeah. With the C-word comes the accompanying L-word. (This we shall not name.)
Ahhhh, the ever-elusive L-word. It surrounds you in the form of annoying friends professing their undying devotion to some partner they just met on twitter but it never quite smacks you in the face like you want it to.
My experience with the L-word consists of stalkers, 'situations' and strings attaching me to people who don't understand that the definitions of 'effort' and 'ignore' are not inverted.
My L-word life in a nutshell. Nice, right?
Thanks to my buddy, currently (appx.) 6,500 miles too far for me to kick in the shin, I am emotionally down and swigging vodka like it's Gatorade.
These are the nights I understand how women can eat themselves into an ice cream coma.
I'm going to refrain from typing past this line as my vision is starting to blur.