naked writing

Naked. Face down on my bed with a box fan blowing directly into my face. When I wake up like this, I know it was a bad night.

I stumbled to the bathroom, rubbing my eyes as I stand over the toilet. A gusher of pee hits the side of the rim, trickling down to the floor. I cuss at knowing that I’ll have to clean that up. I tilt my dick slightly so the rest goes into the bowl where it’s supposed to.

Looking into the mirror, I feel like Waylon Jennings – “the hair on my shoulders, the age in my eyes.” It is, to quote my boss, what it is.

In my living room, empty beer bottles are everywhere. I sign of a night spent in front of the computer, drinking and writing. Writing and drinking. Compact discs are strewn about the floor as well. This used to be my daily routine. Cleaning up the mess of depression. I self-medicated for years after she broke up with me. Drinking all night, sleeping a couple of hours, and arriving at work bleary-eyed and tired. How I was able to function for as long as I did, I’ll never know.

I got a reputation as “surly” during that time. And who could blame my co-workers? I was surly. I was a fucking asshole. I tried to justify it by saying that the job was done, and done well. But it didn’t justify being a prick. Even if in the almost five years since I left that place the persons who followed have done a progressively worse job of what I did. That, at least, is satisfying.

But today, I have the fear. When the drinks flow like this, usually the words do to. And they flow in all sorts of directions. To the internet, via Twitter or Facebook or just a random comment somewhere. It’s frightening to think of the trail of mental destruction that is out there. Some of it anonymous, some of it deleted (but is it ever really deleted?) and some of it very much pointing back to the source.

The inbox on the email account is empty. The sent box is as well.

“That’s a good sign,” I think.

My head starts to throb from the dehydrating process. I wonder how many times the brain inside my skull has cried out for me to take a fucking drink of water over the years.

It bothers me endlessly that I type I so damn much when I write. (See?) There have been times when I purposely avoid first-person narrative, but it’s the only thing I’m good at. Well, that and dialogue. Sometimes.

“Eat my cheesecake!” the crowd screamed in horror. The clock on the tower read 4:35. The bullets would start flying at any moment.

I stand in front of the window and watch some workers set up a tent across the street from my house. It dawns on me that I’m naked only when one of them points me out to his fellow workers. I scratch my balls and put the shades down. Another day in paradise. I get so used to living here by myself in the fall/winter/spring months that when summer finally arrives, I have to be viewed naked before I start putting my pants on in the morning.

Tonight when I get off of work, I’m thinking, I’ll drink some more. Maybe sit out on the porch and watch the tourists get drunk too. It’s amazing to think that I still do the same things. Or is it? As the song goes – people don’t change – so why should I expect myself to? A drunk in AA is still a drunk. They make sure that you always tell people that. Why? Because people don’t change.

If you kill someone, you always are labeled a killer.

When you fuck a dude, you’re gay.

When you don’t fuck at all, you’re a virgin. Well, damn. I guess people do change. I was a virgin at one time.

I decide that standing around in my birthday suit isn’t fun anymore. I put on a pair of mesh shorts and go outside. The sun is painfully bright today. For a second. Then it hides behind the clouds. It’s been raining a lot lately, thankfully. It keeps it from getting too damn hot in the house. Air conditioning is a luxury I can’t afford right now. But neither is beer and I seem to manage getting ahold of enough.

I have to go to work in a few. Designing pages is not my thing. I can do more, and will soon. The winds of change are hopefully upon us. Drawing us in before devouring us.