just a twat

Good thing my dreams fade away fast. The night was long and vivid. And it was all about her. All about the night she got rid of me. Cast me aside and left me behind. I don’t think she’s looked back yet. No way for me to know, but it’s a safe assumption. Some folks are built that way. I’m not.

The night started as usual. I couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned. Threw the covers to and fro. Looked at the holes in the curtains that allow the light from the hotel next door to sneak in. Thankfully, they’re not neon lights, so there’s no blinking or awful pink or purple lights. Just straight on white light.

Finally, sleep overcame my mind. But then the mind took over. Six and a half hours I dreamed of the pain, the heartache of that night. And it was all about that night. It was like reliving the aftermath. She wasn’t there, which is the only way it could have been. Instead, she ruled with an iron screwdriver, rusty and cold, piercing my heart. Over and over. In and out. The beats kept coming and the pain didn’t stop.

In the end, the dream blamed me. I assume it’s because I blame myself. Even though I know better.

When I drowsily awoke around 9 in the morning I felt empty. All of it was crystal clear in my head still. The way a dream is. It is like a high definition television when you wake up. Then it starts to disappear. Before you know it, the rabbit ears on the old Sylvania don’t help the transmission and it fades away, finally becoming a small white circle in the center of the screen. And then gone.

I laid there on my mattress thinking I should write this down. Remember it. But I didn’t. I needed to pee, too. But I didn’t.

An hour later, most of it gone, except for the basic theme of hell, I got up and peed. Looked at my shriveled up penis as it filled the bowl with yellow. I laughed. Not really at myself, but at this moment. And I went back to bed.

A few minutes later, I farted. Time to take a shit. Get up, still naked, feeling the cold in the house with the heat set at 59 degrees. The toilet seat welcomed me. I read an article in a tattoo magazine I took from work. Some guy got a tattoo of a politician on his ass. A great political statement. If you’re the mooning type of guy. But otherwise, just a waste of ink.

I shit. It’s long and brown. Wipe. Flush. Wash. I wonder if the water is still tainted. The city sent out a notice to boil it. I haven’t. I don’t brush my teeth with it, but I shower in it. Wash my hands with it. Hell, there could be more shit in the water than on my hands. I laugh again. Simple thoughts seem to have me today.

In the living room, I stare at the bleakness. A couple of lawn chairs serve as furniture. There is the recliner my dad bought me. Brown leather. I’ve sat in in twice. It’s a symbol of something, just don’t know it yet.

I do a quick count. There are three pairs of dirty underwear on the floor. Six pairs of socks. Two shirts. I try to judge the meaning of those numbers.

The bar across the street is in the process of changing over from winter to summer. The picnic tables have reappeared in the courtyard. That means the masses will soon return to my little oasis of loneliness. I think about how depressing of a thought that is. I think about the fact that I think too much. I wonder if any bars are open yet? It’s 10:55 a.m. The perils of living in a small North Carolina town. Bars don’t open early. They close early as well. Not the place for a thinker.

Plopping in a Joe Ely CD, I sit down to write. Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to write about when I’m in such a strange mood. His generic country doesn’t do anything to inspire. Put Mr. Ely in the “Con” column for inspirational needs.

I think about how hard eight words can sometimes be. I want to get high. There’s no way it’s going to happen. Especially since it’s been longer since I got high than Bukowski’s been dead.

Speaking of Hank, he died 17 years ago. He’d think me a twat. That doesn’t bother me. I think all of my heroes and role models would call me a cunt if I was sitting at a barstool with them. That certainly doesn’t leave me weeping, not as much as my dreams. And I don’t remember my dreams.