Trumpets Across the Nil
Laying in bed with cans and bottles lining the hem of a bed skirt only looks bad when there is a mirror across the room. In the case of yours truly, it's something of a wake up call. Not because there is any sort of reason to panic, no, or that there's a problem in this behavior, no-no, but because obviously my bed grew hands and walked to the store.
Mmm, a cold beer, a nice shot, good brandy, tall sifter of anything poured quick, no time to air. Sounds good. Drinking is a lot like tapping the breaks in the mind. They always seem to work, made in Japan, assembled in Texas, leased; the pull-pull-pull until the stomach hits the throat. Boom, dead stop. One can't contemplate anything beyond the immediate. A roadmap is no good.
Oh! And how I wish to tap those breaks, hell even punch the clutch. It's been a week since that last nice shot or cold beer. Haven't been without a drink this long in over seven years.
Fuck! What a marvelous feeling!
I haven't changed my diet at all and realize that I hardly eat because I've lost ten pounds. That's a human achilles or a masticated femur for scale. The jaw line makes a nice appearance along with the hip-bones again. The gut fluctuates because once liquid gold has been replaced with liquid diet soda can-by-can soldier-by-soldier. My liver wrote me a thank you note. I think it slid under the bed. Call me.
Aside from starving slightly and eternal boredom, the immediate issue is fucking boredom. I'd've moved home before, once, after my neighbor was murdered outside my apartment and I noped the hell out of Chicago until a room opened in Wicker Park. Two months in and I managed to quit the shit habit. Proud as I may be, it doesn't explain the aforementioned.
One can only commute for so long until they snap. Office work (holy shit, this again?) was once on my roadmap. Yes, get a job there, move back there, live there, be there.
And do what exactly?
Drunk, unhappy me wrestled this idea and it made sense: if I move back to the city, I can exist again.
Sober, unhappy me was tormenting this idea for longer than I thought only to realize that I don't give Mason-Dixon's shit about upscale restaurants, gourmet burgers and god forbid PBR any longer.
Me, as a whole, just feels unsatisfied. It's so easy to as well. One of the devices in realizing this was working at a call center negating small loans to far more desperate people than me. Never will another email be graced with "reach out if you have any further questions" nor will 'calibration' meetings be on my agenda. Fuck the coffee, the pizza's sucked.
The other was realizing that I have far too much energy. It's easy for me to stay up until 4am doing god knows what in only lord knows where. My hands need to be gritty and/or sore.
Move to the city, and do what?
Wake up call. 4am. Today I start a job I will inevitably quit. Life is to short for living in front of a monitor. The words (in the heart of a chubby Chicagoan) "Do what ya' gotta do'" will also leave because that's been a rough explanation of my life henceforth (add a lot of debauchery and bicycle wounds) and it's not working out.
One (or me) doesn't have to live this way any longer. What, paranoia? Trying to avoid falling in love? Excel files? There are better places to live and to have. It's no secret that there are a ton of tiny cramped corners of Wild Onions that I like. Complete with etched ceilings, goofy art and free wine. But the magic faded.
Elsewhere, anywhere is a better place to live, though, now, and for a while too. It calls:
"Come fly Ms. Moore Daniel."
Mentality is based on what you put in your body. The previous phase, alcofun has retired. I'm running on fumes of something else consorted a long time ago. I want to fly.
Or at least fall. Pavement would feel good against the grain of a borrowed bed.