He never would have imagined that words have been his downfall. After all, words were his great constant and friend. Even during those dark and dreary days at St. Jude's, he still had pen and paper, a laptop or even a typewriter. How could his own words turn on him?

He sighed as his hand searched aimlessly for a glass, then a bottle. Even though it had been less than 45 minutes since he had almost vomited up a lung due to gratuitous consumption of cheap Bourbon, he genuinely believed that was a better feeling than knowing that Inside was out there. His other problem was that he could still feel his feelings. He had yet to find the right combination/amount of alcohol to achieve that goal. Though, to his credit he had worked up a pack-a-day cigarette habit. He was a published "author" now; he basically assumed he was supposed to live in a drunken, nicotine-scented stupor.

Before Dan Humphrey could roll his mind through another thought, he found his vision whiting out and sludge-like bile rushing from his mouth into the sink. The worst part wasn't the taste; it was the fact he was used to it. His heaving and retching finished as quickly as it started. He tried rather vainly to wash the taste of equal parts puke and liquor out of his mouth with an adjacent cup of old water. He tried to tell himself this was self-destructive, but self-destruction only really happened when people cared about you.

Somehow, he made his way back to the bed again. The rest of the loft smelled like alcohol, cigarette smoke and anger, his bedroom reeked of sad and lonely. As an experiment, he had turned off his phone for the weekend. He turned it back on Monday and discovered he had no voicemails or texts. That was what confirmed the fact he needed to sign his Upper East Side death certificate. He still hoped his self-imposed exile was enough to make everyone happy. He had a bet with himself that it would be about two months before everyone purposefully forgot he existed. Maybe he would get lucky and turn into an Urban Legend that was spoken of in hushed tones in the dorm hallways back at NYU.

The odd part was he didn't know what to do. Normally, he at least had a semblance of what could be done to make most situations better, but now that was for naught. He no longer had Serena or Nate to confide in, he didn't have Chuck to use as a punching bag. He didn't even have Blair to occasionally scheme with. Oddly enough, he never knew he could actually long for the artful insanity of the UES. Only in hindsight did he realize it was disturbingly fun.

His mind merely thinking the name Blair caused his skull to almost implode. He had written a book about a girl he had once come very close to loathing. Sure, he never meant for said book to see the very light of day, but intent followed the keystrokes.

Unceremoniously, his body collapsed and tangled into the sweat stained sheets. His head came to a slightly thumping rest on the tear stained pillow. He barely had the energy to stare at the ceiling, much less remember that he was still holding his cell phone.

It was scary, really. All contact with anyone he had ever cared about basically ceased at the exact same time. Tracing the time stamps on the texts, voicemails and call logs, he could literally pinpoint when his life as he knew it ended. He was sure there was at least a good short story prompt in there somewhere, but he would be damned if ever formed words on paper for pleasure again. The only thing he planned on filling out in the near future was his transfer paperwork for the University of Virginia. Dan, by virtue of his love for Southern writers, knew that if he played his hand right the literary community down South might just shield him. Besides, no one from the UES would be caught dead below the Mason-Dixon Line.

Rolling his head back, Dan sighed. He even hated talking. Whatever words he did muster were usually the occasional profanity. He had no one to swear at or with, but it just felt better.

"Fuck," He blurted out, closing his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He half-hollered. That brought a little bit of joy, but not much. He would rather have had something to throw across The Loft. He grabbed for his alarm clock, ready to engage in theraputic vandalism, when his phone chimed with a text. He looked down to read, ready for what was probably the threat of a lawsuit.

From: Nate

Dan, you still alive?

"….Fuck me." Dan finally said.