Karla

Originally Posted Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Drunk as shit.  May as well write tonight.  It is much shy of ten o'clock.  I've disciplined the cat for pissing on a rug in my bathroom, something she does out of anger, but she does not seem remiss.  C'est la vie.  I drink too much.  That's a fact.  It will fuck up the last part of my life.  Selah.  May already have.  But I go to the gym, and I am strong beyond comprehension.  It is a long history of muscle memory, I suppose, though it seems supernatural to me now.  I don't know how to quit even though I can not stand up straight in the morning.  Sciatica is a torture, but I refuse to give into something so insidious.  Fuck it.  I suffer the most deadly of pain for parts of every day.  It is so.   I think Hunter S. wrote through the haze, and I will try.  Q has gone sober and says he likes it.  He may live a bit longer like old Thomas McGuane the born again Puritan.  I'll go with Harrison, though he is not so laudable in the end.  Perhaps only McCarthy is worth a shit out of the lot, even though his later stuff is hit or miss.  So it is with old age. 

I am completely numb tonight, but I'll have another vodka since the scotch is already gone.  So it is written.  In truth, it can be most hideously sterile and terrifying. There are moments of lucidity. . . and then there is the other.  I tell you this because you are here.  I say this because you are my "friends."  Right? 

 A friend and colleague sent me this.  He said it was two of my favorite things.  He was wrong, though.   It is more.  At least there is a blog that is running.  I'll give her that. 

But there is another girl I am thinking of.  She has a ring on her finger, and I don't even know her name.  Still, I am convinced in the end it will all work out.  She is beautiful, I think.  She is aged (though not nearly as much as I), the age of someone I dated who was then in her teens.  No longer, though. 

I have acted on impulse lately too much.  It worries me to some extent.  My peers have all planned for retirement.  I thought different.  It is terrible what I have done.  It is beautiful.  No one, I think, understands.  It is beyond even the crazy ken.  It is mine alone.  I will suffer it that way.

So much drunk talk in the middle of the week.  I know of no one now to save me.  It is all burned bridges and quick exits.  I'll tell you about the girl at Esquire later.  It is all bad. 

But I can no longer sit up straight.  I am not as tough as I think.   It will all be worse in the morning.