Salting the Wound
I was driving to trivia last night, at the turn onto Southside Ave from McDowell, someone was walking on the side of the street. It's dark, they're moving rather disjointed, my first thought was obviously that they're a zombie. Obviously. Second thought, what the hell would I do if they were a zombie? I'm in a car. Probably should run them over.
Don't worry.
I regained my sense of reality. No one was run over. No, for as much as I'm vibrating internally, I'm lucid enough. Good to know, I do have an instinct to survive. Not that you could tell from how I've been living.
At times, I wonder, if only I was an addict of some sort. Drugs. Alcohol. Something to explain. Something to blame. Don't worry. I wasn't answering, I was on a bender, just went away for a bit. Something to point at that you would understand, that I would understand. Something a little better than I couldn't.
I'm drinking directly from the bottle. Why both with a glass? It's just me. So far, 28 oz of lemonade. 784 grams of sugar. I wonder why I'm not able to sleep. It's midnight. Well past the wishing hour. Not that wishing does a damn thing. No, I've learned my lesson. And I can't say that I didn't warn myself. Even my subconscious was screaming at me. You know better.
I took a class in college about how to live at ease. Something about peace at every step. Like an interactive or practical application philosophy class. It was very much about calming down, about taking care of yourself, something about being rearranging the board instead of being a pawn. Cake class right? Except when raging on the inside without any plan to stop. I passed. Yet like most of my college classes, I did about 75% of the work but somehow made a grade 10% higher. Things to be proud of, conning my way through peace.
I should also say the only thing I ever made in home ec was dessert.
Winner.