“Reality is a crutch for people who can’t cope with drugs.” – Lily Tomlin
I cannot write today.
I cannot write today and I will not write tomorrow and then I’m going out of town on Thursday, so things are going to be pretty dead around here for as far as I can see.
I tried to write today. I walked around Montrose, sober, trying to plan this week’s blog, but I just keep thinking about how my leg itches and how I’m cramping and how I don’t want to think about that project I’m starting at work on Monday.
All good reasons to drink, by the way. Not that a reason to drink ever needed to be very good.
I count sixty-eight hours since I had so much as an aspirin.
I do this sometimes: I try and ride that crest between Hunter S. Thompson and stone cold sobriety, but usually I fall on one side or the other.
Right now, I need to be sober for a little while.
So I cannot write today.
I cannot write today and I’m thinking about dead parents and lost girlfriends and maybe my eldest daughter is dating and there are lines around my eyes and I’m not where I should be in life. And aspartame’s eating my brain, the Republicans are going to win next year and I really should see a doctor about whatever’s going on with this toe. And then there’s every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done and that one time, back when I was homeless…
I’m not going to drink today.
No matter what awful thought pops into my head, I refuse to use it as an excuse. Really. Really.
And I’ll write again whenever I can write again. For today, I’ll just make a cool gif of my head: