the excuse hole

Woke up this morning feeling kinda here.
Then The Replacements popped into my ear.
All I wanna do is drink beer for breakfast,
All I wanna do is eat them barbeque chips.
I guess that’s a good sign for the day?

After the realization of what happened last night hit me, I opened up my eyes. She wasn’t there.

Hook ups I usually leave for washers and driers. The emotional connection I usually make takes its toll when the feeling isn’t there in the morning. Used up and tossed away.

A friend of mine called me a pussy last night. How true is that? The ability to fuck and run is in there, it creeps out every so often. But sometimes it’s just the ability to fuck. The run part doesn’t happen. Even when it should.

But hell, it’s been over two years since I even got a taste of anything remotely characterized by swapping bodily fluids, so I guess I should be happy, right? I don’t have enough money to date anyone, so the prospect of that happening being zero, is a good thing…

I glance about the floor to see if I was stupid or smart. Panic sets in for a moment until I step on it. “Ok, at least my dick isn’t going to fall off,” dances through my mind. The only thing good about being a pussy is usually you don’t have to wear a condom. You end up in a relationship and the pill gets introduced, or some other kind of baby stopper is employed. Because really, condoms suck.

I head to the kitchen. The fridge is empty as usual. There is a half eaten carton of eggs in there, but I just don’t feel like cooking them. You know you’re lazy when cracking an egg and stirring is too much effort. No cereal. No pop tarts. Just peanuts and crackers. What a life I lead. The life if leisure? Sure. But the wrong kind. Except for last night. I wonder…

There’s this constant awful noise outside of my window. I crack the blinds to get a glance at what monstrosity is making me wish I was in bed again. It’s a beer truck, parked with the engine churning outside the shag club across from my house. I used to get a kick out of watching the 50s and 60s hit the bar scene to dance the night away. But now it bores me to do so. Mostly, I believe, because I can’t afford the cerveza to imbibe while doing such a silly endeavor. That, or I feel like I’m too damn close to being in that age bracket.

The prospect of working today is pretty gloomy. I want to be able to get up in the morning, grab a bottle of whiskey and a short glass and write. That would be nice. Instead, I get up in the morning, check my Facebook status and debate whether or not today is the day I should shave. Lately, I’m down to shaving twice a week. Once early, and once if I happen to go out on Saturday. Otherwise its bum city. And as the Big Lebowski told me once “the bums will always lose!” So, I guess I’m a loser baby.

I also hate my job once I get there. It’s just a paycheck, I try to tell myself. But, when every penny goes to paying the bills of a misspent existence or as I’ve now labeled it “a casualty of a mismanaged existence…” Someone said to me the other day “that’s why I like you, you’re so original and witty.” My response?

“Nah, not really. I stole that from The New York Times.”

At least I still give credit where it’s due. Maybe that’s a weakness too? Just steal, steal, steal and no one will know. Well, 99 percent of the folks won’t know. It’s that 1 percent that you have to watch out for. And hopefully fall in love with.

Another weakness, the ever-long quest for the unobtainable. You’ve already had your brushes with smart, funny, beautiful women. And you fucked those up. So, you went for a not-so-smart, great-in-bed version, and she fucked you up.

I just don’t want to settle. That’s always been my only requirement. And I know within the first 5 minutes if I’d be settling or not. It’s why I hate it when I know within 5 minutes that she’d be settling. Which, of late, has come up an awful lot more.

“Don’t fucking hate on yourself so much,” the gallery exclaims.

Well, when the lady finds out you’ve got a pretty bleak future, filled with rising bills and falling teeth, they tend to scatter.

Fucking pessimist. Go back to your hole.

Yeah, it does feel a little bit like the fiddler crabs running around on the beach. They stay in their holes too much, and when they come out, they go crazy. Only to quickly go back into the hole.

Get the fuck out of the hole.

The hole is this place. The hole is my mind. The hole is not home, it’s an excuse.