seagull

It’s surprising sometimes exactly what makes you fall back into bad habits.

Today, it was walking on the beach and hearing a seagull cry. That lonesome wail that come out of its beak forced me for just a second to think about what I haven’t thought about. And I started to cry myself. Alone on the beach on a warmer than it’s supposed to be day in February I stood on the beach wailing like a small child.

So, I went home and started drinking.

I don’t like drinking alone like I used to. At one point, it was a ritual. I did it out of habit instead of want. I can’t say it wasn’t a need, however, as it probably was sometimes. Sanity is a tough thing to walk the fringes of and not falling down on one side or the other.

Much like if you travel the same roads of your past, you’re going to see ghosts. Or feel them. Deep in the bones. An ache that won’t go away. It hides sometimes. But it usually knows when to show up again.

I stopped crying for a moment and watched the seagull. It hopped on one foot for a bit, adding a bit of tragi-comic effect to the moment. Then the other leg popped out and he started walking away from me. He’d done his job, I figure. Stirred up something inside me that needed stirring. So he was off to do whatever it is that seagulls do when they’re not annoying you on your beach blanket or following behind a boat looking for food.

Staring into my fridge, I see the many six packs of beer that my girlfriend has brought me over the past few weeks. It’s a tradition of sorts. There are beer stores worth a damn in Raleigh where she lives. Here at the beach, not much to speak of. I can get Shiner at the Food Lion, and for most of my two years here, that’s been enough.

I pop open an Abita and it starts to flow over the rim of the bottle. I curse the foamy remnants that cover my hand and I go to the sink and wipe it off. I think for a moment about how not too long ago, I would have just flicked it onto the carpet or just patted it on my clothes.

After a couple of beers, and some Lucero music blasting, I start to calm down a bit. I begin to make my plans for returning to the scene of heartbreak in just 13 days – New Orleans. I bought tickets to a Lucero show at Tips in December. Figure I should use them. The long-ass drive will do me some good. As will re-visiting the scene. I have a thing with returning to the places that remind me the most of the pain. I guess it’s good that I don’t go back to Gainesville, Fla. But seriously, that would be stupid. She’s in Alexandria now anyway. Working just down the street from my best friend’s apartment. Funny how that all works out.

Now, with the mind distracted just enough, the tears start to evaporate. I hope the hate doesn’t rise. It caused me to lose a friend, well, in the way someone loses a friend now-a-days with the deletion of self from social networks. But, I’ve decided that yes, I could chase after him. Apologize. But why? He is one of a very few who knows how I’m hurting right now. And he chose to be an ass because I was an ass. But taking it a step further. Maybe it’s a joke and I’m too fucking sensitive. If so, jokes on me Sasha Baron Cohen. If not, jokes on you.

The beer isn’t as effective as it used to be either. Or the words of Ben Nichols. But the pain inside right now isn’t about a girl. It isn’t about being a fucking asshole. It’s about life itself. Just not mine. Which makes it really hard to figure out, being the narcissistic fuck that I am.

So I turn my attention to finding a way to stop thinking about trying to figure it out. It never works, but you can’t say I haven’t tried. Well, some would say that, but fuck them.

The CD ends and all I hear is the ocean. Waves slowly breaking against the sand. This time of year, it’s easy to hear. Which is nice. The tourists and jarheads are nowhere to be seen, and especially heard right now.