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Friday, April 18, 2014

Ten

First drink...

It’s taking awhile. My body is screaming at me to stop. My brain becomes an angry fist, trying to beat some sense into me. My eyes are bloody and blurry. That nagging pain in my side teams up with the brain and deals me a few good blows. You’re a nurse, Mother; what the hell is that precise sting in my lower left region? I hit the vodka last night. I hit it like Babe Ruth peels the skin off of a baseball. I was thinking of you. Will you just leave already? It’s getting crowded in my skull. You've stayed too long! It’s getting late! Leave! I told you already that you are free to go! My every letter home has gone unanswered. Take a hike, dear woman!


I’ll get this tall boy in me though, and my liver will accept it and gear up for another long night. I can see no other option; reality is a realm for the sane to occupy. We’re strangers in such a land. Leave you out of this, you say? Fair enough. Sorry about that. Glug glug glug. Aaaahhh there we go...the old familiar fire. I know I swore off the stuff, but truth be told, I'd rather be dead by drink than dying everyday, dragging a sober corpse around the world. The body has accepted the poison again. The brain is getting sleepy. My delicate nerves embrace the soft blanket of Budweiser.


Second drink...

Right to the point now, before the body realizes it’s been tricked again. The speedy services of Stoli Vodka. My pain has been washed back down deep inside of me somewhere. I just put a cigarette out. I need another. I’ll be rolling butts by the morning. But they’re only my butts;  just recycled germs, no big deal. Sorry lungs, heart. It’s quiet in here. It’s quiet in my skull. The dog is passed out. The fish are staring at me. Shit...the fish. Haven’t fed them today. Here you go guys. I pour out their flake buffet. A little extra to make up for your forgotten breakfast. Leave some on the bottom of the tank for the morning, Mr Bubbles; you know how forgetful I can be. Don’t be like Super Cow Dog; save some of those goodies guys. No need to store up your body fat; there’s more. Oh wait...yes, yes, you’re right Mr Bubbles; there’s not always more. Is that why you throw water onto the floor, Mr. Bubbles? Are you flagging me down like I'm an incompetent waiter? Do you need to have a good shit to feel normal? Have you appointed yourself as my personal alarm clock? I guess I don't blame you. 


Breathe deep. Tastin’ fine, John Players! Ease back. Not a sound. No music. I want no music; I’m not in the mood for someone else’s take on reality. Silence is underrated. Retrace the hostile day. I shouldn’t have barked at my boss. I’m such a prick. It’s not his fault that I’m washing my socks in the sink, even though my pay sucks. Is there a place in this dying county where the pay doesn’t suck? The laundromat costs me a six pack of Carling in coin. What kind of scam is that?  Laundromats are overrated. So is spellcheck. Googling “spell laundromat” now. If I’m correct, I’m sending a complaint to Microsoft. Those wavy red lines are sapping my concentration. 


Third drink...


My mind is ablaze with random snapshots. Hulk Hogan? Where did you come from? Be quiet, brain. And Brett Hart was far better anyhow. Fine, brain, let's google the wrastlin' archives. 

Actually,  never mind; Shawn Michaels is sure to show up. Prancer. I hate that guy. I think that all guys hate that guy; at least they should. Did I offend someone? Good. That’s what wrestling should do. Wrestling is like life in many ways, Mother; we give the world our boldest and brashest. People 
don't always agree with us. We feel stung. We sting back. Fists fly, words become weapons. Wounds are inevitable. Someone always goes down, Mother, and justice, that rusty sword, is often tossed out of the ring in a squash match. The beauty of it all lies in the comeback. If you can dust yourself off and reinvent yourself, you can enjoy a long and prosperous career. As much as I lov...I mean as often as I think of you, I’m taking the title belt this time. Can we agree on a DQ? That way we both leave the ring with all of our marbles. Yes, let us face off in the squared circle, oh beautiful undertaker! If we dance, our calamities are made candid and we both see them more clearly. The pressure cooker spews out its boiling blood and it’s safe again to open the lid, for a time. We accept our injuries for the greater good. We carry the script into the next taping. Why 
haven't you answered my challenge? My Mean Gene is calling! If you’ve got something to hide, don’t keep it inside; that stuff will kill you dear woman! I've noticed that it's killing both of us 
lately. I've no razor hidden in my wrist band. This is a fair fight. Step into the ring. I'm trying to control the bloodshed, Mother, not create a needless mess! Does that make me a bad wrestler? 
Either way, we're both beautiful losers, dear opponent of mine.

Fourth drink...


Well, fourth and fifth to be exact. This Stoli is as smooth as spring water now. Time to double up the dose. Super Cow Dog, wake up! Let’s wander the beach awhile, old fat friend! My paralysis has lifted! Let’s talk to the ghosts that old Erie holds fast under the azure sky. Most of the town is sleeping. There is noone now to cut us off on the road or litter our sacred path with emissions and empty coke cans. Yes, buddy, let’s go. I’ll give you that walk I promised last week. The shutters of the summer homes are opening one by one, like lazy eyelids. The people of the village are coming alive and pulling springtime into their realm. Campfires fill the air tonight, sending up their burnt offerings to Easter morn. Praise be to winter’s death! The last traces of that bastard lie crucified along Erie’s tattered shores. It’s time to celebrate again! Evil April has released her iron grip! Stoli has released the iron grip on me. 


Sixth drink...

Life isn’t as bad as I thought it was this morning, Mother. Forget the title challenge. We can dance any old time. We're both still ranked on the card. Let’s have a round of hugs. The pooch is pooched now; there were no furry friends for him to sniff and snort over, and he lost a few calories trying to find one among the delicious dead grass and skeletal hedgerows. It’s just you and I and Erie's ghosts now. They assume their timeless groans, preferring to wander in the silence of the night when their voices can be carried across the sturdy tide. I assume my cozy chair and smelly socks as I write you now.


Food. Hungry. But I cannot eat; food is a buzz killer and it brings a dreamless sleep. Food breaks my back as I pass out under the weight of greasy pizza on my shitty couch, depriving myself of my my orthopedic bed. Food can wait. Food leaves me with a half empty bottle of Stoli, which is no good to me in the morning. Half measures avail us nothing. Glug glug glug.


Seventh drink...


Life isn't bad as I thought as it was this morning, Mother. It's worse! It's far worse! Where are my children? It's Easter! Where is my wife? Where are you? Where is my chocolate bunny, god damn it? 20 years and you still sit like a stone, resolved unto your dying day to guard your fort against the 

very fruit of your womb! 11 months and my wife still sits like a stone, resolved unto her dying day to guard her fort against all that frightens her fragile mind! Am I really that scary? 7 drinks and I sit like a cat ready to pounce the first shadow I see, resolved unto my dying day to prey on every yesterday...drag out every corpse! The work tires me beyond belief, old ghost! 7 1/2 drinks, and I find one clue in this mystery as I rinse my face and realize just how ugly I’ve become. But do not now condemn me for my vodka. You gals have only sober fear. If I must walk with a crutch, so be it; as long as I walk in the right direction. Only a brave journey to yesterday, though stumble we may, can show us where we wandered off course. We must sift through the ashes, hands strong and steady, and find a trace of life amidst the decay! So I write. And I'm a fool. I write for nobody. 
Palabras Para Nadie, girls. Thanks for dropping by. Glug glug glug.

Eighth drink...


Cranking Leonard Cohen. I do want to hear someone else's take on reality after all, Mother...a certain someone's take on dreams and destitution, on hope and heartache, on peace and war and sex and drugs and words and wishes and wrestling. I'm loaded with questions. I'm out of answers. I am alone, but I'm not. Surely Mr. Cohen understands. Leonard, you must pull me through this shit, man. It's so very dark tonight. I've enough light left in me to find one more missing piece of my stupid soul hiding somewhere.Thank you all the same, Jesus, and happy Easter, but I need songs much sweeter than yours. Don't be upset. I need words much more profound. Don't get me wrong; you used your words well, and thank you. If this story doesn't end well, I'll crucify myself, I promise. 


Ninth drink...


Turn the music up...


Goodnight my darling, I hope you're satisfied.” Super Cow Dog, I love you. “Halleluah, Hallel”...Damn it, Super Cow Dog, you piddled on the...Mr. Bubbles...yes, yes, I am on my way over with a flake buffet. Here's your...shit...I slipped in the piss! There's that pain again...“If it be your will that I speak no more...” NO!, Super Cow Dog, that's not your food! Leave it! “...such a very hopeless voice”....“I practiced all my sainthood...” Stay calm. Virtue. “The man she wanted all her life was hangin' by a thread...” Hang on...couch. No, floor. Fridge. Thirsty. Crack. Thud. Sting. Red. Bleeding. Glass. Fuck!


Tenthe Dirnk...

$%^*&**(*^%$#@*# Supre Cow Dg...Mr. Buffles? Ayneone? Suprd Cw Dgg...Hlpe! Serup Cwo God, help me!


Epilogue

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