"There Are No Atheists In A Foxhole"

"Boy," she said from the doorway,
"only you can have a late-night
drunken rendezvous that ends
an hour later
with the girl leaving in tears."
I wasn't sure whether to take it
as a compliment
or a cut-down.

"No, it wasn't like that.
She's a friend,"
and the words sounded strange
coming out of my mouth.
Sometimes the lines blur on me
after the double-vision sets in
as the rounds
and the funds
and the good judgment
go down.

The sick cycle of hurt people hurting people
and the Superman Complex
failing again;
"He can't even help himself,
how can he save someone else?"

Woke up alone next to Miss Mossberg, 20,
and noticed that I'd missed the bottle a little
and the point entirely:

Loneliness is the water-torture penance
that must be paid for my last five years,
and this forked tongue in sheep's clothing
can't talk its way out of it.

But we're all guilty:
we've all trampled those
long ago
with our respective
and worse
have become the very things
that we stubbornly claim made us
the ways we are
in the process.

Lord, give us strength
to deal with those
whose fears never dealt with them.

"Boy..." she said from across the hall,
and it didn't matter
how I took it anymore.

Currently reading:
"The Red Pony" by John Steinbeck.
"My Side Of The Mountain" by Jean Craighead George.


it's a fun game, everyone always cheats.

i just got off the phone with my mother. i feel bad for lying to her, but i'm sure she saw right through it. she's always known when i'm being evasive. i suppose being a bad liar, or at least an obvious one, is a good quality. i got quiet on the phone when she asked if i've been making deposits in her bank account and quickly suggested that maybe the bank made an error as soon as i recovered from the initial surprise of the question. i've put a couple hundred dollars in over the past few months because times have been tough for her and my stepfather isn't always the most supportive husband in the world. i failed to remember, however, that she is more or less a detective and checks and double-checks every coupon and bank statement and line of shit from friends and family until she's comfortable that she has that ever-chased Truth. she must've gotten her bank statements and realized that she did not put the money in, and that my stepfather sure as hell wouldn't have. at first i was going to admit to the whole thing and say i figured it was the least i could do since i have dinner there once a week. when the moment came, though, i decided to bluff my hand at the last minute by suggesting that she shouldn't look a gift benjamin in the mouth and not to mention the bank's error to the teller next time in case they try to take it back. it'll all pan out in the end i'm sure. i told her the other day when we went for a ride to spend some rare quality time together that she only sees the tip of the iceberg in regards to my life. i promised to have some surreal stories for her when we're both old and it doesn't matter anymore, and that if she only knew how ridiculous my life is at times she'd flip her shit. when that day comes and i tell her about all of the crazy shit i've done and that's been done to me i'll be sure to soften the blow by telling her the truth about where the money came from back when i was twenty-three and making more money than i really needed. and if by some chance that plan doesn't work out, if one of us happens to pass unexpectedly, i'll tell her in another life when we're both rabbits.

there are so many things i wish i could tell her right now, though. i opened up somewhat during the long ride to the catskills we took on sunday, but not as much as i could have. i expressed my current fears and troubles without getting too morbidly specific as to what's led up to them. (wow, i'm an asshole. my ear just itched and i wanted a sip of this yuengling, but i was too wrapped up in the damn moment to think and i almost scratched my mouth and poured beer in my ear. this should be an interesting night.) i told her how i'm stuck in this godawful rut where i work six days a week just to come home and read alone in my room until i get tired enough to fall asleep; how i'm terrified of being alone, that i feel like it's impossible for me to meet anyone decent, and that it's probably for the best that i don't have my own place right now because i'm scared of what i might let happen if things ever got any worse for me and i literally saw no one after work; and that my biggest fear is of turning into my father, which she laughed at. she tried to reassure me that no matter how many times i say it scares me i will never be him. i informed her that i'm already showing some similarities in terms of mistakes made at this age, which i only know because my aunt tried to tell me about what charlie vahsen was really like before being brainwashed by the ghosts of his past and bogus religious leaders. the drinking, the womanizing, the driving loved ones away inadvertently: those are the patterns that i see forming, and i'm scared shitless of ending up middle-aged and alone because of my own downward spiral fueled by an addictive personality. i told my mom that i wish my old man could be normal enough for just long enough to share his own life lessons with me himself and come down to the level of us sinners, but that'll never happen. why is it that i have to try to overt disaster on my own instead of with the help of a parent who went through it already? i'll never let that happen to the kids i'll never have. my mother and i sat at a bar in new paltz over dinner as this conversation came to a close and we came to an understanding that most wouldn't understand, but that somehow made sense to us: she told me i should try relaxing by smoking weed like she does as i took a sip of my pint of sam adams summer ale as we locked eyes and understood and accepted each other's vices. growing up has a lot to do with learning to see your family as ordinary people with ordinary flaws, and loving them anyway.

which is precisely why the shit my stepfather pulled a month ago pissed me off beyond belief. my uncle ray on my mother's side, the one who went to jail for fifteen years for murdering his wife with his bare hands after coming home high and finding her in bed with someone else, was recently arrested again. he's sixty-three years old and has a six-year-old daughter with an illegal peruvian immigrant who left him after the kid was born. as poor as the timing was in terms of his age, that little girl basically saved his life by forcing him to come out of the depressed slump he was in for long enough increments to care about someone else other than himself. the thing about ray is that even though he has a good heart he makes such poor decisions at times that always lead to sour endings. the apartment he's been living in is in shambles beyond belief. when i went down to florida to visit him and my other uncle in march with the ex neither of us could find a place to sit amongst all the clutter that covered every surface of the place. child services got wind of this state of affairs via a nosy neighbor who hates ray and the police came on a wednesday night when he happened to have his daughter for a scheduled visitation and took him away for endangering the welfare of a minor due to the state of his living quarters. my family didn't know what had happened for a couple of days, and as soon as we were informed we were all heartbroken. to imagine this man back in a cell for the first time in fifteen-plus years over something so stupid and easily avoided was very distressing. he doesn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, and my uncle who usually bails him out (though never literally) was financially tapped at the moment, so immediately after finding out the bad news at work i drove to my mom's and laid six hundred dollars on the kitchen table and told her to send the money down there to get him the fuck out of jail. the look she gave me as i counted and spread the bills out for her was part astonishment at my having that kind of disposable income (i make more than her now), part parental concern for an overzealous son, part proud love for having raised a man who doesn't have to think twice about doing what has to be done to take care of blood regardless of the circumstances. and that's what family is to me, unconditional love. which is why it pissed me off when i found out the next day that my stepfather had been giving her shit about her brother, making false accusations and assumptions in his nightly vodka-drunk stupor. she shouldn't be criticized for caring about her family, and the fact that he ran from his at such an early age and left his wife and kids to fend for themselves only puts him further out of the realm of being able to talk. and what our family does and how we take care of each other should not concern him anyway, no one asked him for help or an armchair quarterback suggestion. she regretted telling me about his stance on the matter as soon as she told me because she heard me get pissed off over the phone upon hearing that. then she told him my sentiments about his sentiments and that only made things more awkward for their home life and the monday nights that i visited there for a couple weeks. we'd still have the bullshit construction talk about our current jobs for fifteen minutes in the living room before dinner, but we both sensed the tension. one saturday at the bar after both of us had worked for our other boss the three of us stumbled upon the topic and the beer took over my mouth for the best for once. i laid it out there to my boss, how i'm loyal to my family no matter what and that you can't turn your back on people you have no choice but to love, and he agreed. my stepfather tried to chime in but i only further solidified my point by telling the story of the six-hundred-dollars, which he hadn't been able to give so suddenly if his own biological son in his thirties had needed it. that shut him up and things have been fine ever since. like jeffers said, "dig deep your heels," because sometimes it actually works.

a couple weeks ago i was coinstarring it up at price chopper and had to go to the customer service desk to cash in my voucher. i was standing in line behind an elderly gentleman on one of those motorized courtesy carts that supermarkets have. he turned his chin up from his lowered position and told the woman behind the counter that he had a comment to make about an employee. i instantly curled my toes and clenched my teeth in anguish because i just wanted to get my damn money and this sorry bastard presumably had nothing better to do with his gimp ass than bitch about some zit-faced teenager's poor work ethic. that's why i was so surprised when i heard what he actually had to say. i knew i was wrong as soon as he started speaking: "you probably don't hear this often, but i have some positive feedback. i just wanted to let you know that daniel is a wonderful person. have a nice day." the lady jotted some note down on a sheet of paper and i checked to make sure she had written "daniel" somewhere in the sentence. she smiled, he smiled and rode his handicapped cart away, and i felt like a suddenly less cynical asshole. i stepped up to the counter and said "that was nice." she glanced up at me from her paperwork and agreed, though both of us knew that the other felt somehow bad for always assuming the worst about people. she asked how she could help me. part of me wanted me to be honest after such an awe-inspiring experience, but i settled for handing her my cash voucher instead. and when we told each other to "have a nice day" after the transaction we both really meant it for the first time in too long.

i just went out for a smoke. there are two huge cardboard boxes sitting on the side of the driveway. my landlord is finally going to re-do the shower that's been falling apart ever since i've moved in. about ten tiles are missing and water is getting into the basement. it took a phone call to him and a couple angry (though calm and sensible) conversations with my roommate (his daughter), but it's finally getting done. it'll be nice to be able to take a shower after work and not worry about the fucking wall falling apart any further or stepping on any gross bugs that come out of the gaping hole near my feet. i had to go as far as to threaten to have it fixed myself and then take the fee out of the rent, which probably sent them reeling. my rent's always on time and i fix whatever i break, but the fact that the house is one hundred-twenty-years-old and needs some basic maintenance is not my fault. if i break something i fix it, like the railing on the stairs, but i'm not going to go out of my way to pay for the upkeep of their investment. anyway, i laughed at my small victory as i pulled on my cigarette and stared at the boxes. then i looked down and saw the massive spider on the railing that i thought i killed last time i was drunk and smoking out front. it was in the center of its web so i took my lighter and started chasing it with the flame. i'm pretty sure it escaped into the nearby ivy with most of its limbs, probably to return in a couple of days once its stubborn nature gets the best of it yet again. i guess i can't blame it though; we all tend to return to what feels like home, even when it only hurts us over and over again. which is the only reason i stayed with the last one for so long. a few weeks ago i temporarily unblocked her on instant messenger to see what she was up to. she took the opportunity to try to pour salt in the wound via away message. i used to half-jokingly say that she didn't really want to be with someone like me, she wanted to be with some yuppy who drives a sports car and hikes on weekends and is probably named something snobbishly wholesomely american like "brock davenport." it was a running joke of ours, but we both new i was fairly serious about it because our interests were so different. anyway, as soon as she noticed that i had unblocked her she put up some smartass away message about how she couldn't wait to spend the next thirteen days straight on vacation with brock. which was probably just spiteful bullshit, but still. no, "dave," "but still" nothing. you know that it made you feel better, one way or the other. either she really did find someone who could finally fulfill her needs since you never could so you should be happy, or she's such a vindictive bitch for lying and trying to hurt you so far after the fact that you should still be happy because she's an evil cunt whom you never should have given the time of day, let alone two years' time. either way i win, which is nice. i blocked her again (yeah, how seventh grade, i know) and went to sleep soundly knowing that i was finally over it. from then on i've honestly only missed being with someone, cooking for someone, telling my stupid stories to someone, sleeping next to someone...not her specifically. it's a definite step in the right direction and i'm glad that she was the catalyst without even realizing it.

the time frame on that recovery was pretty impressive. it took years to get over the first one that really knocked me for a loop during my precious college era. i pined over that one for far too long, probably because i associated her with the last of the innocence in my life, if there ever was any. it came full circle about a month ago. we had been talking here and there online and she mentioned that she wanted to get her first tattoo and asked if i'd take her to my guy. i jumped at the opportunity and quickly made some final decisions about the idea i'd been tossing around in my head about my next one: the plumb, square, level, balanced tribute to my current construction job(s). i scheduled our appointments for later on that week and tried not to feel like a kid before christmas because i hadn't seen her in so long. we had dinner first and then went to the tattoo shop to take care of business. she decided to go first so she couldn't see the process being done to me and then chicken out. i tried to keep her distracted with conversation and laughter, but most of the time she winced and grimaced and i wished i could somehow take the pain for her. part of me wanted to offer a hand to squeeze, but the other part knew better than to push it. i downed the beers as i watched her make the facial expressions that i hadn't forgotten and kept telling myself i've made it this far and will be ok with having her around as "just a friend" if that's what it takes to have her around at all. her tattoo was completed and then my artist had to design mine, which took awhile. sometime during the process i told her she could leave since her friends wanted her to go out that night. she stuck around for another twenty minutes, but when i suggested that she leave again she took me up on it and headed back to where she belongs. i was there for her when she needed me and that was all that mattered, i didn't need her there to sit through a process i'm used to by now. and somehow it meant more that she left me there and i was ok. on a smaller scale it represented my life somehow. i still had my friends (i've spent over two grand on this silly hobby, this guy better damn well consider me a friend) and my beer and my sense of humor to keep me going, and i still will regardless of who decides to leave my life again at any point. if there's one thing my mom taught me it's to stick to my guns when the going gets tough; only pussies get going. and i tried that once or twice, it ain't for me.

i told you before that i'm normally pretty bad at lying to others, but that doesn't mean i'm not great at lying to myself. so in all fairness i do still think about it every day; or, more accurately, every night. and sadly, the thing that makes it go away most times is my own vanity: i always tend to come to the conclusion that i would never be able to successfully handle writing that last one, making all of those final statements, penning the uberblog. but hey, whatever works, right?

speaking of work, i kinda have to go there tomorrow in order to get paid. and shit, my foreman won't even be there to take charge so i really have to step up to the plate and teach the kid i'm working with a thing or two about being a plumbing ninja. let me go the fuck to bed already. goodnight, fools...and i say that lovingly.

currently reading:
"the pearl" by john steinbeck.


i've never reeked of apathy.

i think one of my biggest flaws is how greatly i let others affect me. it's not that i'm impressionable and succumb to peer pressure; it's more that most of my actions, especially when drunk and/or in one of my pensively decisive moods, are directly results of people who have little say in their own lives, and should therefore not even remotely impact mine. she's single and finally talking to me again like nothing happened three years ago: i'm foolishly hopeful to the point of texting her once in awhile (GASP!). the other one's on a whored-up revenge fuck binge: i'm wasting time writing bad poetry about how i don't and never cared. they laugh and memorize my embarrassing stories and memorable lines to throw them back in my face later: i drink excessively in order to inspire those cherished moments so at least maybe when they regurgitate my crippled history i'll be assured that someone out there is paying attention once in awhile. it's a hell of a way to live, basing your life on reactions you may or may not get from others, but i suppose we're all guilty of it to some extent.

my mind just drifted off in a totally different direction. i'm going to go with it, pathetic blog notes be damned!

i found some old cologne bottles i had at my mom's house a few days ago. she set them aside for me in a ziploc bag, probably to quarantine the stench of cheap fragrances that were somehow acceptable in junior high. i brought them all home and set them out on my shelf in the bathroom in case i'd ever feel inspired to deviate from my age-old standard, Polo Sport.

the first night home i smelled the phallic green bottle of Brute and instantly remembered the days when my childhood best friend of six years and i would drench ourselves in that stuff every friday before donning our camo jacket and white t-shirt uniforms at the ice rink. he fell off the deep end with drugs and stealing and getting in trouble with the cops so we parted ways. aside from the mistakes made by my close family, his downward spiral into the world of hard drugs is what most inspired my choice to never go that route. to this day i still haven't dabbled, not even with a little maryjane. it's not that i think i'm better than anyone, it's that i've seen what it's done to so many i've loved. the fragrance made me flash back to those times crucial times of character development further confused by hormones and it was bittersweet. i put that green bottle down and tried to remember the good times we had together before my old friend slid down that slippery slope. the ironic part is that he wound up becoming a plumber in local one in new york city. we both found the same fate somehow, but my tattoos are far better.

two days ago i opened one of the same two brown round bottles i rediscovered. i had just gotten out of the shower so i splashed some on my chest. the smell wafted up quite quickly and reminded me of who used to wear it, and probably still does. i'm not sure what it's called, but for all intents and purposes we'll give the formula a working title of "Dad." it's unfair that even though i haven't seen him since november i'm still walking in his shoes in my own right, making the same mistakes he did at this age. i glanced in the mirror and told myself i wouldn't let myself go too much further down that road. i wish that somehow maybe he could waltz back into my life again and be fucking normal for long enough to give me some fatherly advice in order to avoid his fate easier, but i know him better than i know myself in some ways and that'll never happen. he's too far gone to be the man that i need him to be, too preoccupied with his precious notion of an Afterlife to care much about his time alive, or as my mom always said: "so Heavenly bound that he's of no Earthly good." it's a shame that construction workers have taken on his role in my life, but i'm thankful that i have at least that much. i glanced in the mirror again and splashed some more on myself; a little of that cologne would just make me miss him, a lot of it would constantly remind me not to ever let friends and family go by the wayside for a belief like he has.

yesterday i sprayed some Fahrenheit on after cleansing the sweet stench of failure off my body via soap and water. that was another fatherly fragrance, but it somehow had a less negative association. he never actually wore that stuff so it didn't really remind me of him so much as it did how i acquired it. he bought it for me one time because the other stuff i had been wearing was so cheap (probably the aforementioned Brute) and he wanted me to have a touch of class. i laughed to myself at that one, then and now.

last night while brushing my teeth i opened the last bottle, Stetson, and sniffed it. that was another one of those lame colognes i used to rock hard back in the day, probably before i even needed deodorant. i'm pretty sure i just liked it because there was a cowboy on the label. i capped it and thought of who it reminded me of, though not as warmly as i would have like to been able to. i was never close to my grandma on my father's side for whatever reasons: the distance, the fact that it was hard to have a conversation with her because she was partially crazy (runs in the fam). when she passed a few years ago i didn't cry and i felt bad. if anything it was good for it to happen at that time because my father and i hadn't been speaking for several months over a lyric he misinterpreted in one of my band's songs. (yeah, he's that nuts.) he called me up to give me the bad news and invite me to the funeral, and after that we started talking and seeing each other again. maybe grandma knew her sacrifice would somehow benefit her offspring. maybe her last gift to her Stetson Stud, as she used to call me (once the Handsome Teddy Bear days were over), was worth more than all of the five dollar bills in christmas and birthday cards she ever gave me combined. too bad it didn't last.

just like the one bottle my mom ever bought me, Curve. that came as a gift to try to get me to wear something than Polo Sport for a change, and change i did. i started wearing it when i had first moved out of my mom's condo three years ago, thus beginning my manwhore days. the already double-digit number of notches in my headboard skyrocketed: doubled, tripled, quadrupled, quintupled (?) so quickly that i found it hard to have parties eventually because the girls would have all realized my game and joined forces to beat me into submission and castrate me. there's one memory of that horrid Curve stench that really sticks with me, though. it was the mo(u)rning after, i didn't even have my bed moved into my room from home yet. we woke on an improvised mattress of some sort and she looked at me funny, like it meant more than it should have. i dodged the glare by stuffing my face back into the pillow which must've been covered with the stuff the night before to cover up the smell of the beer spilled on it. i found out later from her angry friends why she made that pained facial expression when it happened, and why she had been looking so deeply into my eyes for comfort during the act: she was a virgin and i didn't know it. another one bites the dust, kid. great. i never wore that cologne again in that apartment after that, not until the few times i wanted to smell like the asshole i knew i'd wind up being again later on that night somehow. i like to play the part sometimes. i like to play myself. i like plays on words.

so today it was back to good ol' Polo Sport, and it'll probably stay that way for awhile. scientists claim that the sense of smell triggers the most memories, and my little sniff down memory lane only proves them right. i've had enough of that for awhile, though. i'd rather be the me that i have been by choice for eight years now than the me that other people have tried to make me via cologne. and besides, i know that sometime somewhere someway this lovely fragrance will find its way into her nostrils and make her gag as she guiltily remember me, and maybe even regret letting it end like it did. it's only fair that i get to ruin potentially pleasant things for them once in awhile, too.

currently reading:

"the selected poems of robinson jeffers"


Jacob was a sissy, he only took on one

maybe it's just the lighting
that makes you look
like a total bitch
in that new picture you're so proud of,
or maybe it's that I know now
what he's in for
what THEY'RE in for--
and that it ain't worth it.

we should've had the lifespan of
a carnival goldfish
or maybe even
fireflies in a mason jar
but instead you tried to stick me in hell.
you came back to check up on me
and saw me sprawled out
with my hands folded behind my head
and a surprisingly cold bottle of suds
between my grinning teeth
so you stormed back out,
slamming the doors behind you.

stay the hell out of hell this time,
'cause really it ain't that bad
and unlike YOU ever were--
it's MINE.
you aimed for water over my dam
but only got it under my bridge
and I'd say I don't give a rat's ass
but I never understood that saying.

I've wrestled a few Angels
in my time,
and believe me:
you weren't one of 'em.


johnny, pass me the sawed-off!

it's nights like this i wish i still lived in my first apartment so i could smoke inside.
part of me wants to kick my air conditioner out of its perched window position and light up
even though there'd be hell to pay because my roommate would flip.
i'm already paying hell, i might as well go all out and get some satisfaction out of the deal.
but i won't.
i have enough unchosen battles to deal with, i don't need to go around picking fights.

unless, of course, i'm drunk at our bar after five too many gin-and-tonics
looking for someone i hated in high school for no reason
and still hate now for plenty
to look at me the wrong way.
her brother is next to me and in worse shape than i am
all two-eighty, six-four of him.
he's running his mouth off and itching just as much as i am
for the dirty look trigger to launch us into battle
or cuffs and the drunk tank
or a coffin if the kids have knives.
we can't even walk or talk straight
but we're cocked and ready to land punches;
just aim for the middle image of the bastard.
"you got my back if shit pops off?"
"yeah, man...i'll..."
"that's all i needed to hear. you need another yet?"
"yeah, this one was watered down."
"how is she?"
he squints his eyes and realizes he's hammered enough to answer.
"i don't know, she's never home anymore."
"is she seeing someone?"
"how would i know? i didn't even know you guys
were going out again until the night i had to dodge beer bottles
in my living room."

we laugh and try not to choke on the ice as we drain the remains
of our overpriced cocktails.
after that last remark i see it for what it really was
despite my drunken haze:
the scariest relationship
but not the scariest
i'd much rather be getting bitten and scratched and screamed at
and baptizing infidels in beer
than what i've had since:
my room and a few dozen books.
day in, day out.
nothing to look forward to
besides a beer and a smoke
and maybe an accidental death
via tractor-trailer on the road
or chop-saw at work.

i guess what it comes down to is always having been in singular form:
only child, sole inhabitant, diagonal sleeper and filler of empty beds.
one apprentice in the company worth paying more to run work.
one man the other boss can count on working every saturday.
one friend that everyone likes to drink with,
or at least see drunk,
since the fireworks always fly
usually at his expense.
one friend who's been through enough
to make it worth the call
when you can't figure
your own shit out,
even though he might
actually call you
after you get what
you need.

when's it my turn to pluralize?,
or at least have someone else
to bear the burden of being
my "one" once in awhile.
they say it's lonely on top,
but why do they have to
trample the one
stuck on the bottom?

appreciated by all the wrong people
for all the wrong reasons
or the right people
for reasons that are admirable
but not enough to get me out of bed in the morning
without swearing that i'll climb right back in after work
and try in vain to read the doldrums away
or at least back far enough
to silence the calls from behind the dust ruffler.
he should've taken all the shells
and not the ones we found on the beach.

there are only three beers left in the fridge
a pity party foul on my part
but this was impromptu.
it comes like a two-minute piss you have to let fly
after a tight-kneed drunk-drive home.

those soul windows welled up with them a few minutes ago.
they haven't come in a long time, especially for no specific reason.
they just did.
it almost feels good.
to feel something touching my face
besides sweat and dirt.

she just told me i was in her dream last night.
i was at her house apparently.
i apologized if i did anything rude:
overstayed my welcome, pissed on the toilet seat.
she said it wasn't like that.
"it was pleasant."
i didn't tell her about all the dreams
i've had about her for the last three years.
but we're friends again, it's not so bad anymore.
funny how that works.
sometimes all you can do is settle for having someone in your life
in some capacity
even if it means you get spontaneous tattoos
so you can accompany her for her first
(and tell your artist to charge her the minimum price
and you'll pay the rest of it after she leaves).
i'd still give her the shirt off my back
and the rest of my life if she asked
but it doesn't hurt to think she won't
because i know now it wasn't meant to be.

and i guess that's where i am right now:
analyzing the connotations.
"pine" is better as a verb than a noun.
for the first time in years i'm not pining, though.
that word implies wanting the past, and i'm finally done with that
it's more of a "yearn,"
more of a wanting the future
wanting what's left to come
before i die
in my sleep
of totally natural causes.

talking to her for the last half hour has totally changed my mood
and not in a false hope sort of way.
it's just nice to talk to someone who knows
or knew
despite the beer.
despite the cold sheets.
despite the fact that tomorrow will be just as monotonous as today.
i guess i can stop now.
i'll be ok for the night.
funny how that works.

currently reading:

"crime and punishment" by fyodor dostoyevsky.
"the flash of lightning behind the mountain" by charles bukowski.