Days and Confused

Today is one of those days where I want to do drugs like when I was young.

I know it’s not the answer. We already came to that conclusion and let go of that rope six years ago. I like to think those burns are gone but the marks are obviously still on my palms.

But today is a day where I can’t run or lift or consume my way out of the anger and disappointment. With myself, mostly. It’s not even all that serious but it is that way today. It’s not forever. It’s a fever dream from lack of sleep and the heat.

It’s not self-hatred. It’s shoulders back self-reflection. We’ve been to that shithole country before. Selfloathistan. I spent my formative years fearing and loathing in Massachusetts. We had some fun and took some pictures. I’ve already seen the view and the passport’s full.

“Aren’t you tired of this?” He says to himself.

I know a cocktail would set me straight. Momentarily. I stopped smoking weed a year or two before the booze but I’d take a weak pinner right now. Really, it’d be molly. Pound for pound the happiest compound. Sounds great but I’m not interested in coming down. Besides, it’s not 2008 anymore.

Just enough booze to feel the ooze trickle down. And a cigarette chaser. Feeling that nothing-something standing up too quick and sitting back down.

So that’s it. Just a vent. The words have always come quickly when I’m feeling down. It’s pulp but give me the fucking five cents a word for now. Tapping my fingers on a screen because I forgot how to type on a laptop. I’m only half-joking. It feels like a foreign and forgotten skill. I feel like my dad using my pointer finger to punch in every key.

Speaking of keys: Cocaine is a horrible drug.  2/10, wouldn’t recommend.

But speaking of punches: I could put my hand into the wall. It’s a new home decor trend. Call Chip and Joanne, tell them I’ve got an idea. I’ll paint your trim black and punch holes in the plaster. Angry rustic chic. I think it would really tie the room together and look good paired with the yard car down the street.

This isn’t serious. I’m not feeling particularly violent. I’m just fucking bored with everything. “If you’re bored, you must be boring too.” Sure, sure.

I know it’s proper placement of time. The veteran bro screaming “extreme ownership”. Give the broken clock his due. I’m never good with idle hands.

It’s the heat. Premature Appalachian summer and the a/c doesn’t work. I’m listening to Whirr in a trance and imagining everything. It just never seems to be how I want it to be. I can see it. I can gather all the words and the gestures. I can even hang them on the wall. I still find myself typing to myself on a Saturday night.

When I was a child, I spoke in delusions to, and the glorification of, recreational drug use. I’ll be a man and put ‘em away.

I think about these things and the things that were friends to me when I was young and dumb and fun. I don’t want creativity to be tied to feeling pinned down.

Maybe I could sell cars or craft the perfect pair of jeans. Write the next great American novel or steal a scene. Write a song, own a restaurant or maybe I’ll keep chopping wood. I guess we’ll see.

Read it with something droning or somber. Context is everything.

This is fiction.