I started drinking beer about fifteen minutes ago. Not to get drunk or anything. I still have Macallan left over for that. I mean I may get drunk. Too early to decide right now.
I’m drinking because I’m bored and I get pretty sick of myself sometimes. Which is kind of ironic now that I think of it. I spend a lot of time with myself. I stayed home from work today. In fact, all weekend it was just me and I. No women. No bars. We wrote and played the guitar. We read and watched some boxing too. Shared a bottle of Scotch Saturday night. Got up Sunday morning and cooked some eggs and sausage. We read and wrote some more the rest of the day. I blame me for the hangover.
I guess sometimes I get uppity, preachy, and judgmental. A real pain in the ass for me to be around in other words. Worrying about this or that, replaying this thing or that thing in my head that I did or didn’t do. Generally finding more ways to feel guiltier and shittier. I’m good at that. Maybe it’s just that this one bedroom apartment is too small for me and I. Maybe we were used to the nice home out in the suburbs with the kids. That’s gone now; sold it for the divorce.
I have this game I like to play. I reach rock bottom and then I kick myself over the cliff. Rock bottom isn’t good enough for me.
They say I’ll be happy one day. I give a damn about being happy. I’ll take whole any day of the week.
Sometimes when I get on a bender the few friends I do have say the same thing, “Think about your kids.” Hell, I do think about my kids. I think about them all the damn time. I dream about them too, which is lovely trying to go back to sleep afterwards.
Anyway, I finished my beer.