This is not a journal entry by any means. I feel like that’s obvious but just in case it isn’t….
Its 8:10a.m. I think I understand why people become alcoholics. It’s because of mornings like this. The ones where you wake up and wish you had a glass in your hand. At the first draw in, your breath hitches and you stare at the ceiling. Not to be dramatic, but we’re all cursed anyway, so what’s it matter? The sound of ice clinking would be a welcomed sound in this silent room.
In the corner I can see the morning sun trying to peek through from behind heavy dark curtains. It’s a wonder the sun bothers to rise each morning to shine on any of us ungrateful bastards. We fight so hard to keep it out. The light haze of its efforts spill out on to the floor, bleaching the darkly stained wood, causing the world to look as if it were being viewed from behind a sepia lens.
There’s something calming about condensation rolling down the side of a cool vessel in the midsummer humidity. Stretching my leg out, reaching with my every effort, pointing my toes as straight as possible, I allow the sunshine to wash over and soak my pale skin. I imagine my foot balancing a glass of aged scotch. I imagine the droplets, rolling and sliding dramatically to their final resting place; my skin, the wood panels below, a discarded tshirt, a thrown pillow. I imagine the slight tremors my body undergoes in the early morning from lack of caffeine causes the ice to clink lightly and I close my eyes.
I can definitely understand why people become alcoholics. For the comfort. To fill a void no human being, live or dead could ever fit into. The alarm clock on my bed side table sounds violently and I don’t jump to shut it off, to silence it. I let it ring obnoxiously until my roommate bangs unhappily on the wall between us. I imagined bits of the thin separator splintering off with each loud connection that his meaty fist makes. I imagine a hole slowly growing and growing and growing until he’s able to reach in and toss my alarm clock aside for me.
In my mind the balancing act taking place on my foot comes to a crashing end with one last, loud thump of fist to wall. As I reach to shut off the nagging noise box beside my head the invisible glass falls from my flat foot. From my foot to the floor. On the floor to pieces with scattered ice and a particularly strong scent. I’d probably leave it there if it were real just as fake me will leave the fake glass. It’s 8:30a.m. I can already smell tonight’s whiskey on my breath, taste it on my tongue, feel is settling in my gut.
With great effort, I pull clothes on to my body as if it were a chore. Jeans, a T-shirt, a button up that makes my fingers regret my decision, a jacket with the most broken zipper in my closet that makes me want to wail, the sock hat that gets caught on ever calloused finger tip, the boots that won’t be keeping any sort of water out. My face is uneven terrain as I rub my hand over my chin; the five o’clock shadow had turned into stubble, had practically recovered itself to beard status. But only in particularly odd places. Nothing fucking matters.