Strike Three

I experienced an illuminating moment of self-discovery yesterday, during the course of a short telephone conversation with an old buddy, on my possible upgrade to the status of "Non Drug-Using Friend."

Without going into the details of our conversation, I'd say that I think this is definitely good news for me; since my unceremonious exit from Wonderland earlier this year, when I officially decided to stop fucking myself up on weekends, I've been feeling a little ambiguous about my association with drugs. It's been a case of trying to practice a sort tolerance for something that you will, unwittingly, loathe afterwards. Something that has done an incalculable disservice to you, and in severe cases, irreparable harm.

Imagine feeling very pleased with yourself that you've stopped the abuse, and at the same time, trying not to come across as condescending towards people who still enjoy them. Imagine trying to not worry about what the drugs are doing to them or about what the drugs have done to you.

Not fucking easy, is it?

Well, I have only two vices left; alcohol and cigarettes. (If you consider coffee as a vice, you might as well rent a buggy and ride for the nearest Amish town. Might I recommend New Holland, Pennsylvannia?)

And I'm aiming to strike out those two, as well.

Eventually.

Bugz in the Attic

I don't wanna go to work today, I'd rather stay home and play video games.

But I gotta get up.

Positivity Redux

I stood up to my chest in the sea, closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to get swallowed whole by a 30-foot wall of blue, while the sun was shining and the beach behind me sparkled intermittently from the reflection of light off seashells and shards of glass and bottle caps.

I felt, instead, the crest of a small wave as it knocked me back and under, my eyes still closed, reaching out and feeling nothing.

I broke the surface with a shout of joy and then of remorse. And then of gladness.

And of gratitude.

I hate it when I think too much whenever I'm travelling, but for fuck's sake, it's good to be alive.

Medan, New Orleans, Phuket around Christmas in December 2004.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry because my empathy felt displaced, it felt corollary.

I couldn't help but feel this incredible feeling of sadness as I walked out of the surf. Transient as it was. Fleeting, as it was.

But I felt it all the same.