I've always wondered what waits for me when I die. I assume I'll wake up dead some crap morning and realize there's a boulder or some lava or snakes in my rent controlled fire hazard. Then some searing pain and uncontrollable fear surging through my veins, only topped by the realization that there is none of the horrid visions and I'm just stuck in the same fucking life.



I am exquisitely tired. A filigree of days steeped in alcoholic terrors and nights slipping in and out of consciousness without will or knowledge. I drink during the day until I drink to fall asleep. Then I try and sleep until I pass out and dream about some decent liquor and my bitch of a sister dancing on my mother's grave. Which would be a weird dream if I hadn't seen it happen. I guess it's still a weird dream, but fuck off. What I wouldn't kill for a wet dream. Really anything other than the same dreams I have every goddamned night. Do you really read this? My sober enough to write drunk enough to not care what I write ramblings stained with grease and condensation from a plastic water bottle on whatever paper I shove into my typewriter. I think I sent the last rambling on the back of a letter I never sent. I need it back. I forgot to put postage on it. 8 times. Eventually the post office decided to send it. Or keep it. I'm tired.

I was in a grocery store, walking toward the milk fridge. Saw him hit her. Again and again. Not as hard as he could, but hard. He was obviously drunk, punishing her the way he did at home, too out of it to keep his sickness from the public’s eye.  Punching to the face, chest, arms.  And she didn’t make a sound. Just took each hit, expecting the next, unable to think of moving. I lost it. I grabbed him by the throat and shoved my knee into his chest. And let my fists fly, knocking his skull into the ground, growling words I wanted to scream. And as he lay there I stood up and looked back at her. She looked, numb. Not happy that I had kicked the crap out of her boyfriend, but not sad either. Resigned. Her small face resting in the crook of her arm, brunette hair trying to cover the bruises drying tears. I quickly walked away. What else could I do? You can’t really ever save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. I was hoping I was wrong, that he could control his temper. That he would feel horrible and never hurt her again. His friends had looked embarrassed, as if this were slip, not attempting to hide his transgression. And the next day I saw him there, sober and bruised. I walked up to him, told him yesterday I was the one who roughed him up. That everyone makes mistakes and lets the anger take over. Hell, I had lost it and cut his face open in a grocery story. Sure, for a nobler purpose, but lost it the same way he did. And he had a little smirk written on his face, the way he explains away the problems. A brush off the shoulder. Seeming to thank me for not calling the cops.  I didn’t know what to make of it, but it didn’t seem good. I told him that there was a time to realize you were acting like an asshole, that eventually chances run out. That he better keep his act in line. He pushed me and I slammed his head into wall. His fist connected with the side of my head. He lunged at me, knocked me down and we brawled until I twisted his wrist and shoved his face into a shelf and mine followed. Blood tricking down our faces. Walking to the exit I saw her standing by the magazine rack. Eyes down, hands idly musing across the pages. Her head raised slightly and she saw me staring at her. Damn, didn’t realize I was staring at her. She gave me a recognizing smile as she said hi. I said hello back and that she… No, I didn’t say anything else. Maybe my eyes did. Maybe they said I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. But that isn’t a relationship, just some sick obsession with saving. So I walked out the door and drove through the dark streets, allowing myself to get lost in their twists and changes. Dark streets I winded down seemingly out of memory, but it only seemed so as none of them were familiar to me. Simply letting the surreally bright lights and alley abscesses guide me home.

I drove to my house, or was it a friend’s house? It felt like I lived there, with my group of beautiful misfits. We talked of things we always talk of then climbed into the bed to sleep. A large enough bed we weren’t all on top of each other. Not that some people weren’t. I think I was kissed or pet by someone, but they might have been saying hi. Sleep was still a ways off, lights dim and talking washing over and under the covers. And we rose from bed, people were at the door. Among those entering were the guy and the girl. He and I glared, after we saw too much of ourselves in each other. The tension between us pushed and pulled, desperately holding us back and pushing us into action. He was his usual, I assume, jerk self to her. And as he was mean to her, grabbed her, ignored her, she became a watering can. I can’t say for sure that she became the can, but the can was there and she was not. This is less odd than it seems, people sometimes become things, not everyone, not often, but it happens. For some made up reason he had to leave. Probably had to do with the impending fight, but maybe he had an oven to turn off. As we curled up to sleep I sat upon the chair and rested my head against the table, near the white plastic watering can. But I knew it was her, I could feel her presence. I put my ear against the spout and felt the air blow against my cheek, felt in wordless waves of air her life, her story. And I gently blew into the spout, felt the air from my lungs press across the water. And I fell in love. Not with the story or the situation, but with her.

Gin offers a horrible absolution. It wipes my slate clear and sets me up the next morning with minimal hangover or memory. Usually it's just the night before but if I'm lucky a week will be knocked loose from my skull along with the bad choices I probably made. See, probably made means I can't feel regret for them because there's a chance they didn't happen, just tenuous possibilities as probable as what will likely follow. Namely alcohol and stagnation. It's odd that liquid courage so rarely leads to great lives. The absolution is terrible because it implies the mistakes I make, along with the rare moment of brilliance or sobriety, have no consequences.

The worst thing anyone has ever told me came from my mother. She died years ago, probably out of boredom, and is the source of the happiest memories I can muster. "You can be anything." She would whisper these words into my sleepy nodding head before I fell asleep. It haunts me now, on the fated night I fall asleep before I can pass out. Because they were true. Because I had a reality to create and somehow I fucked it up. Twisted and failed until almost against possibility I find myself here: writing meaningless tirades and tales to no response but cash in an envelope. Occasionally I get paid to ghost write for cheap lazy people or make a few dollars cleaning shops.

Hahaha, if anyone saw the state of my one room tenement apartment they'd think twice before hiring me to clean or fix. Of course the answer would be no. It seems the answer is always no. Or maybe. Sometimes yes. ... well I guess it depends on the fucking question, now doesn't it?