“How much longer can I sit here, staring into the abyss?” I wondered to myself. The time passes slowly, like a car in front of you when you’re in a rush. The minutes roll by, only disappearing when you commit to staring at static on your phone. I’ve only got one more hour until I can start drinking, and then who cares what I do with my time. I won’t be in any state to do anything well, so it’s just as respectable to do jack shit, right?
I try to recount how many things I’ve accomplished since I woke up four hours ago, since I got tired of keeping track of my dreams.
I ate the same breakfast I always do, drank the same coffee I always do, finished a movie I’ve watched before, and started writing something that I will never finish. I think it’s the starting that matters, you know? At least I’m trying. I remind myself of this often, rationalizing my lack of follow through on another project. 80% is a B and that’s a pretty good grade, all things considered.
I am out of work for a second week now, and I’m floundering. No idea what to do with my time other than tinker, reorganize, and drink. The cigarettes are like going for a walk around the block. The high doesn’t entertain me much but the withdrawl reminds me to get out of the house for a little bit, if for no reason other than to feel the natural elements and try to feel something deeper than my next drag.
It wasn’t until I went to fix myself a drink (cheating the last hour on the clock that I was trying to hold myself to) that I smelled it and remembered. I haven’t showered in three days. I reeked of McDonalds ketchup and mustard packets that had been ripening in the sun. I’m oily, sweaty, and unshaven, just letting my body expand and contract without any care or maintenance from my side of the street. I have become gross.
I keep waiting for lightening to strike, but it has yet to storm in Miami. Only sunny skies out here, creating days with great forecasts for my holigan shit. There’s time to smoke, toke, and coke without any consequences. It is too easy. I’m supposed to stop and clean up my act, you say? I’m supposed to get busy living or get busy dying? Honey, this is life. What exactly do you want me to do in a city that I’im planning on leaving in five weeks? (I did not end up staying five weeks.) I don’t have shit here so what do you think I can do about that.
I’m more of an introvert than I give myself credit for. I hate getting to know people, knowing that I’ll eventually leave. This ain’t business, it’s personal, and it hurts. I’d rather cry in dive bars with rotten scoundrels than bond with people who understand and uplift me. I always leave the house alone, buying one ticket, eating at tables for one, cracking jokes about the streets for myself to laugh at. The crazy nights out on town can only be corroborated by me and the strangers that melt back into the woodwork, never to be seen again.
So I lean into the glory of hobbies that I’ve never been great at, hoping that this little distraction is what I was born to do. I’ll find my voice, post online, and be swarmed with inquiries for interviews and content. The headlines will use words like “sleeping giant awoken” and “a genius come to light”. My life will never be the same, but that’s ok because I will be excelling. Enemies will become friends and friends will become confidants. My excuse of busyness will be expected and accepted. I’ll live a small, yet large, humble life. I will be complete.
It’s a brilliant fantasy, and it will happen, as long as I finish this last little chord or this final paragraph. And posting it! I could do that too but I’ve got to find a website, probably pay a fee, and then… tell people about it? Beg them to read it? I can hardly convince myself to shower when I’m unemployed. How the hell am I going to convince someone to read my crap on the internet, and not out of pity either.
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