Monument

three packs of cigarettes. twenty apiece that makes sixty, makes sixty hours I can keep this up, between six pack and bottle of wine means one beer for 10 cigarettes, which in turn means 1.12 oz of beer per hour, and then also allowing for 12.5 mL of wine, which when converted from metric becomes 0.4228 oz. On a little more than an espresso shot worth of fluid I can finish this I can write this hour by hour until I go back to work again.


See, it's a problem of scale. There's the underlining problem, the one that starts off with a feeling of listlessness in the afternoon, and by evening theres the obsessive, the compulsive need - to break down, to talk, to shout, to scream, or just to hit the refresh button on this until it bears some relevancy in this world, at this time. It won't. I'm pretty sure about that. But back to the problem of scaling. My solution to the underlying problem is to go to the druid, and I simply cannot scale this up to deal with every night. I can write in this blog, which is a poor attempt at not going to the druid, and I could probably call someone. None of this satisfactory. Right now, nothing helps me to sleep more than eight or nine guinness. Less than that are the optimistic dreams, waking up in disappointment, or the confusing ones, waking up to an overwhelming sense of doom. This all sounds dramatic, doesn't it? This all sounds like, well, what did you expect?




I am better than this, better than these nights of spilled out talent, better than these nights of obsessive paralysis, better than this desperation. It was easier to be better than this, once. Even small gestures betray me. Just don't make me beg.