Beer and Bad Nights

Iget in the dark places sometimes.



These dark places that I need to walk away and find myself in a different place.



And last night I was there.



Mentally I was stuck in this evil little hole. Where the world was against me, and the words weren't coming out right, and the book was less than, and the girls weren't the kind of beautiful that I wanted. I had nothing to do, and no where to go. Just C.'s house for a while and then bed.



While at C.'s he had to go to this dinner thing with his brother, so I just sat alone in his house. I listened to Morrissy, read evern increasing amounts of Bukowski (this man may get me through my life), drank and smoked. Sometimes the only thing to get me through the black funk is this miraculous combination of music, books, alcohol, and cigarettes. Last night the magic would not work. I still felt this looming hate, this need to be seperate.



Watched Anthony Bourdain in Thailand, and decided for a least a half hour that the answer was to flee to South East Asia.



Then the inerta of beer set in, and I took a shot of Sailor. That put my dreams in order, successfully quashed.



Around ten I went to where the bed I sleep in is at.



"Where are you?" I find myself mumbling to every woman I have ever loved.



can do the couch alone, mostly because there is no room for someone else, but a bed. Dear god a bed seems so empty. Hot blankets and beer stomach, and I want nothing more than flesh on flesh and round soft hips to put my hands on. A good night kiss. An, "I'll see you in the morning my love." I drive myself mad with the thought. 10 becomes 12 and 12 becomes 2. I get a drink of water and lay in the bed backwards, praying for sleep.



I don't write, I don't read, because I know they will do no good.



I want more beer, but it is next door. My rum is at S.'s house, that bastard. I know he isn't drinking it, but I hate him for not being willing to wake up at 2 in the morning to bring a pint of rum to me, never mind that it is an hour drive. I want to drink until oblivion and vomit force me into the kind of sleep that comes with a spinning bed.

The bed is comfortable but devoid of life.



The room is hot. I open a window and it helps.



Finally I can feel the black wave cresting.



And though the alone doesn't disipate, it ebbs a little bit. And I try closing my eyes again. Finally.



Then morning comes, and it is time to hit the streets again.



And I can still feel the ache for comforting flesh.



File under Vice.