two shits in a pint glass

I walked outside without thinking. The door closed behind me with a click. Locked out again.

The sky was gray and the rain was falling hard. My clothes were soaked five seconds later. I sat down in a lawn chair and cried.

Even though I have a double shift waiting for me at work, the thought of driving the hour to the office does not seem like a prudent idea at the moment. The boss is going to be pissed off about overtime. But since I’m pulling three “two-person” shifts this week, I don’t feel bad about it. Yet, I still feel the compulsion to not go in at my normal time today so I don’t get as many hours. It’s a perverse way of living, feeling bad about a place that could give two shits in a pint glass about you.

When did I first make the mistake of putting work above all else? In college the first time, I didn’t do it. I just had fun. In college the second time, I put work above class, and my GPA went from a 3.9 to God only knows what by the end with all the F’s and incompletes that became F’s. But I still have a lot of fun and enjoyed what I was doing.

Hell, the first job didn’t have that. The girlfriend was 2,500 miles away and I was a “professional” for the first time.

The internship, I chose the relationship. And ended up paying for it.

Ditto, next real job.

I guess it’s when she left and I stayed. The job won out over life. At first, for the right reasons. Keeping us afloat until … But until never came.

Now, it just is part of me. The job. I hate it sometimes. At other times I know how lucky I am to have such an easy way to make a “living.” I miss writing. I miss reporting. I miss the edge, the drama, the fights.

The people are all just as strange. From whiny assholes to people who don’t want to improve their craft because, honestly, I don’t believe they think it’s a craft. The drunks are everywhere. The broken downs. The dropouts.

Even though this is the first paper I’ve ever worked at that I haven’t developed any “drinking buddies” or at least “talking buddies” it’s been worth it. Hell, who can say they’ve put nearly 60K on a car in two years? NASCAR racers, cabbies, truck drivers and maybe hearse guys…

I look down at my soaked t-shirt. Another advantage of my position is the wardrobe. I can wear a Pitfall Harry shirt to work with plaid shorts and soccer socks. I’ll miss that whenever the inevitable career switch happens. I’ve been looking about. Applying here and there. Not getting a single nibble, but eventually it’ll happen. And I’ll be sad that day.

I already thought my career in journalism was dead three years ago. But I went back with my tail between my legs because I had to not be a bum anymore. Bills and such needed to be paid.

Now, I’m in love and life needs to move forward. I wish we stumbled on to some wealth or she had a trust fund for me and her to tap into. But, that shit ain’t gonna happen. Instead, we’ll toil on. Hopefully, in a better mood than I am right now soaked to the bone.

I’ve got to try and keep writing. As you can tell, I have nothing to say today. Nothing creative. Just words flowing out of my mind. I read that I should find my “writing time.” It seems to me that I write more in the mornings or late at night – preferably after a few adult beverages. Heartbreak and misery fuel the words more so than puppies and flowers and celebrations of life. Which is too bad.

At the end of the day, I can still be happy that I’m trying again. I gave up there for a little bit. Well, more than a little bit. I lost a couple of friends for reasons that still baffle me, and I gained 15 pounds. But these things won’t matter after I’m gone. These words probably won’t either. It would be nice, however, to see my name in print again. It’s going to happen. Why? Because I’m going to make it happen. Maybe I’ll go to Shiner, Texas and work for the Gazette there? I’m sure they need a surly, but talented, reporter to write about how great the Texas hill country is…

Ode to the glass

The glass is dirty. From my grubby hands holding it, drink after drink. Memory after memory.

Yet it doesn’t mind. And it still does it’s job. Transferring the whiskey from the bottle to the glass with ice and then entering my mouth. Where it will go to my liver, further shrinking its usefulness.

That’s what I like about a glass. It does it’s job until it’s broken. And when it’s broken, you throw it away. You can’t glue it back together, it just won’t work the same way.

Wonder if a heart is the same?

You think it’s healed but really, is it ever? You can move on to someone else. Move on to someplace else. But your heart, it can stay behind. That’s what happens when you give it to someone, right? You’ve taken it out of your chest.

Fuck, that’s depressing.

Speaking of … I tend to wonder if I’ll die of liver disease one day…My dad is a drunk. He has a liver of steel. I was told my grandfather (dad’s dad) was a drunk. He died because he was too damn stubborn to go to a doctor.

It all sounds so damn familiar to me. Like a song that only has one memory attached to it. You could hear this song every day of your life, before that day, and after that day. But no matter what, it will remind you of just that day. Life’s like that. And there’s not much you can do about it.

Except tilt the bottle down, pour it into the glass, clink the new ice in and take a swig.

To many that sounds like a cop out.

Others see it as a need.

I’m in between those two places. Which means I’m just no good at making decisions. I can go weeks without a drink, and then weeks with one every night. There are good nights when I’m all happy and content. And of course, there are nights I black out and don’t remember whether or not a friend is still a friend anymore.

It think that’s why I keep looking for new music. If you’ve never heard a song, it can’t remind you of the past. It’s not from there. But, that’s the biggest lie I tell myself every night. A song just wraps itself around whatever the hell it wants. You have no part in this dance. That’s why an album I downloaded last night takes me back to 2000. It just does.

And one I bought two weeks ago reminds me of 2005.

And one I listened to as a high school runt puts me in college. Whichever time it feels like on that day.

Why? Maybe I don’t ever evolve. I just stagnate. Thinking too much about the past, not enough about the present. The future? Yeah, I used to plan things. But they never come true.

Shit, maybe that’s the solution. Plan to Nic Cage myself. I’ll fail at it right?

But I once said the only thing I can’t fail at is failure, so if you plan to fail what happens?

It’s like this fucking awful goatee I’m growing. Technically, I’m just not cutting it, the body itself is growing it. I know that most folk find it kind of silly. Maybe even frightening. Me? I just like being able to do what the old guys used to do in Kung Fu movies with it. Stroke it while “thinking” or right before letting out a long, ear-piercing chortle.

It also makes me look my age.

I considered signing up for a dating site today. Just to see what happens. You get the free profile set up, and then it sends you “matches”. So, after considering, I did it.

I was matched with lots of ugly people. Lots of people with “kids at home but separateds.” Even more folks with a high school education.

Sorry, I need someone who likes to read. And most of the folk I was matched with, they’d say “really don’t like to read, or no time to read.”

Fuck that. I like to read. And I do it. Lately, I’ve been taking books to work and reading there.

Thank god I got that from mom. That and being the shyest M’fer in the world.

I hate being bitter. I’m not a fucking lemon.

But I’ve let myself become this shell of a human.

And it hurts.

I like watching the rain.

I enjoy driving.

Bands still get my heart racing.

So do redheads.

And apparently, so does a good bottle of whiskey.