a conversation with a friend last night had me coming back to reality.
i don’t drink whisky. i don’t do shots. i swill beers and wine and that’s
that.
but lately i’ve been searing my spinal cord with whisky, and gin. why? i
don’t know. no need to toke my soul, as i have nothing much from which to
escape. the sponge of my brain is, i have come to know, an insatiable
whore for numbness.
my father drank every day of his life until his late 60s, when doctors
told him to stop. he stopped, for a few months. then he discovered whisky.
he never drank much more than lite beer until he resumed drinking those
few months after the doctor’s orders.
i beat him to the whisky. by 25 years. he’d be proud.
my life is unstructured and desultory. no reason not to drink, no reason
to resist. except those precious innards. oof.i have felt like a walking
blowtorch this week. too much whisky. too much sleep. too much much.
munchamunchamunch.
…..
strange doings at Calvary today. too strange to explain. working on some
stories, though. some quality text matter.
…..
writing another story about Ethel
