The ice cubes slid like glaciers.
The lime wedge was the Titanic, sloshing back and forth across dark sea of whiskey and ginger ale. It was my duty to save these poor souls by emptying the glass, so the ship could run ashore. None would be lost, and none would be saved.
Welcome home god.
That’s how the nights run, through soaked eyes, one must keep the gears from seizing up or binding. Cars need oil, lips need Chap Stick, and vaginas lubricate themselves. I do it with drink, anyway I can. I don’t wake up and feel the need to chug a fifth of whiskey, and neither do I feel the need to drink in order to escape whatever life or reality they call this thing, but rather, it’s a drink to reflect, a drink to think and ponder, I see no harm in that, and as long as my personal relationships, my work life, or my family, or my safety is not at risk, then I see no harm in pouring a scotch and doing some great writing.
Which is how the day begins, usually it’s a 2am mad spree and my palms are sweaty as they pound on these plastic keys each night. I don’t fancy myself a writer (I hate writers who use the word fancy) but I do enjoy the process of writing, the excitement and anxiety to get the next set of words out, the scratching of hairy body parts in order to relax and push the brain muscle a little bit further out pass the chain of flowers at the door. It’s challenging to challenge yourself every night to produce something different, something new, something, well, actually, anything at all. And when the merging gets out of hand I give myself a head nod and lay down to sleep a few hours before the dreaded workday begins.
I do not enjoy the act of going to sleep, actually it scares the hell out of me, to lay down and let your body slowly shut down all functions and unplug your brain, how is that supposed to even comfort me to close my eyes? But waking up is always twice as hard, my eyes are groggy, my nose is stuffed full of particles I inhaled in my sleep, my bladder is calling for evacuation and somewhere, always, every goddamn day, there’s a leaf blower making this mad noise in the distance.
My life runs on a series of alarms.
My morning alarm is the first one, this gets me going, pushes me out of bed and I make my morning waddle to the coffee maker. I stand there, not really thinking at all, and listen to the coffee pot putter. Putt, putt, swwwwooossshhh, putt, putt…. On and on like this, it’s my morning meditation, I plan my day out and make a mental list of things that need to be done. I finish my coffee in the shower and before I pop out the door, I check to make sure I have what I need, “Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch.” It’s a daily mad dash to get out of the apartment and to work before anything explodes. Myself included.
2 cigarettes and ten miles later I’m at my second home, which is sad in a way, that my job would be my second home I mean. Not the 2 cigarettes or ten miles of driving, which can also be sad in a way, but I enjoy driving and the cigarettes keep me focused, so fuck that noise. I manage a restaurant. Actually that’s an understatement, I run the restaurant, I manage the employees. There are twelve poor souls who call me boss, and I report to the owners. I am merely the middle man, and we all know what that means, I’m usually the one fixing the problems. The food is decent, the atmosphere is great, and my paycheck is pretty fat. Although it is a job that requires my full attention, and there are always things breaking, employees expressing their concerns, and people spouting off half-assed, dim witted ideas. Sometimes I watch them talk, and think to myself that there must be a monkey in their heads, wearing a cute little hat, and a red jacket, slamming two cymbals together, as another monkey flings his poop across and splatters onto his brain walls.
By the end of the day, I’m taxed out and sit at the bar to enjoy my free beer. I plan out the next day, check to make sure everything is idiot proof, and then walk as fast as I can out the door and to my car. The drive home is smooth and flat. I lean into the turns and push back against the seat, I let gravity take me for a second and clear my mind of everything except the thought of staying alive. When work mode is shut off, my face numbs, I don’t smile or frown, stationary face and let the thoughts come back into my head. I take note, sometimes writing the first few lines as I merge onto the next freeway and do a mental inventory of my bar at home. If I’m stocked, I’ll be writing, If I’m not, then I sit around and have a few drinks in a dim bar somewhere full of people that I’ll never love or like, but can stand being in the same room with. I don’t take well with other humans, and those that I do enjoy the company of, I love dearly, or else I would not have them with me. There’s so many empty people floating around, so many vague, dead eyed humans with no respect to humanity. I feel sad for these people, and angry for their naivety.
I think to myself that perhaps I should have thrown a line or two about my girlfriend in here, but then I realized that she knows how important she is to me, that I don’t even have to put it in writing. It’s unexplainable, her involvement is incomprehensible and private, while the rest, well… The rest is turds floating down Life River.
Fucking deal with it.
Fucking deal with it.
