Man, if you knew.
I've been existing in a kind of incredulous rage for the better part of an hour, and I feel like the only way to assuage this obnoxious feeling is to down copious amounts of cheap cherry wine (by a twist of fate, I find myself in possession of not one but two bottles of said poison, from two separate snotty wineries approximately 800 miles apart from each other, and both procured personally from their respective points of origin, and when the fuck does THAT happen ever)
So, that's what I'm going to do, friends. I have no grand designs that this will be anything like Being an Experiment Upon Strictly Scientific Lines, primarily because I have zero plans to talk about elephant spunk. I mean, the night can turn, but at the moment, I'm thinking that's not going to happen.
Drink poured ... and away we go.
I have The Twilight Zone on as background. After a recent extended stint in my car that absolutely required music at ear shattering levels to prevent me from dying in a horrible crash, I'm pretty much over music. I'm sure it's temporary. I'm sure as I put more and more of this wine away, I will be absolutely convinced that I have to hear Rolling In The Deep like holy fuck right now because that shit speaks to me, man, etc. For now, though, I'm relying on Rod Serling to fill the generally creepy silence that exists in the suburbs and that I can't ever condition myself to get used to. I have a deep, deep love of The Twilight Zone. It reminds me of hanging out with my mom on New Years Day, with one or both of us nursing terrible hangovers and wishing someone would go out and get us Chinese food (no better cure for a hangover, that) and no one ever doing it because my dad and my brother were assholes.
But nostalgia is neither here nor there. You know, Mom's been dead for six years and I live in Pennsylvania and my brother's still an asshole but I see him every 18 months if I'm lucky and I can get my own goddamned Chinese food, so what-the-fuck-ever.
Gleeful rage, then. Pleasantly furious, even, as Ani said once. I actually wrote a rather lengthy and detailed account of this impossible anger, but, you know. I'm done spewing that shit in a public space. I can ever just say what I feel. I always need to dress it up, and in the dressing, I end up with about four inches of untrue & unnecessary gravitas. In my, whatever, futile attempt to make meager words mean something, I almost always make them mean too much. Which ... of course ... is only apparent in hindsight. Long after the damage is done. Long after the option to take it back has flown high-fuck out the virtual window.
I have said a number of things I wish I hadn't. This is one of those universal truths that is never going to go away or change. I will continue to say shit I shouldn't for the rest of my life. Conversely, I will also keep my mouth shut more frequently than you'd fucking think possible. Chasing this balance is My Great Trial. Revelation! Right. This is not a course they offer at community college. I mean, I've been consistently missing the mark for 25 years, so apparently you don't even get better with practice. Or I don't, anyway.
Fuck. I just choked on cherry wine. It hurt. Like, a lot.
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But oh, when the light fades, and the hour is none.
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I can never quite decide anything. Not really. I am in a state of perpetual temporariness. My leanings are temporary. I commit to nothing in my head, because commitment takes a fair amount of bravery, and I am not brave. I would rather waffle and see how things pan out, so when they invariably fucking implode, I can breathe easy and bank on the fact that I always kept my cards close to my chest, and pretend to be blase', and whisper to myself, you know, I had a feeling that shit would unfold exactly like it did. Because I never accept any conclusion as inevitable, I am always in a position to be right. Brutal. And true.
Everything and nothing, right?
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I pine for the day I can use an entire stick of butter in a batch of mashed potatoes and not feel terrible about it. The guilt never quite stops me from using that stick of butter, but I think the enjoyment of that calorie-laden deliciousness would be greatly improved if I could convince myself that it's okay to not feel like shit afterwards.
On further analysis, that last sentiment can apply to a great number of situations in my life.
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I should go to bed. I have a big day of drinking and doing things I'll woefully regret tomorrow. And the more I stare at this screen, the more I'm aware of this pair of itching, throbbing mosquito bites on the back of my knee. Mosquitoes love the fuck out of me. Perhaps they're attracted to all that butter.
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