2.06.2010

Liver like Swiss

I look down at my spread palm and wonder where it came from-- the injury, not the hand. Two fools made the latter almost twenty-six years ago. Last night's bout was pretty heavy; so much so, in fact, that for the dwindling life of me I can't remember acquiring said wound. The half-inch-wide diameter of red irritated flesh dead between the base of my right middle finger and the horizontal crease that runs the width of my hand stares back at me and laughs: "You lost control again. You don't even remember."

Like a self-abhorring patient who says "It only hurts when I do THIS, Doc," I stubbornly press down on the bruise. If I close my eyes I can find it through my tactile sense, the small raised bump at its center drawing me in like a sad homing beacon. I look closer at this nucleus and notice a dark purple shard where it resides. A splinter of bone, perhaps? There my mind goes running off again. Damn that hypercreative brain housed by that unnecessarily thick skull. It's gotten me into so many waltzes. It's gotten me here, into this. I press again, harder this time, as punishment. The cocktails weren't enough. I had to chase shots with them as well.

Checking my email reveals a sudden burst of subpar inspiration before succumbing to the alcohol's effect: a few trite words meant to encapsulate a mood, a moment, that may or may not have happened. And what will it amount to? The same as the rest of this: nothing. How many shallow nights have ended in this same vein, a last-ditch effort text message sent to my email account from the safety of my mattress since the liquor made it too hard to get back up and stagger to my desk. It's hard to remember when beer still did it for me. It's just not strong enough anymore. I want to disappear when I drink. Most times I succeed.

But back to that nagging sore on my hand-- Where did it come from? When will it leave? I scan my lapsed memory in search of its origin. Slamming it down on the bar, perhaps, after a rough swallow. Christ, I've become him. The revolutionary loses again. The new boss, same as the old. And for the record that's not being kept any longer, Fuck Pineapple Larry. He doesn't even exist.

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