I’ve lost some weight but he doesn’t notice. No. Of course not. But he does notice the house is a total mess. Well no shit. It’s a fricking disaster. He’s home all Sunday and could have helped--but no. Easier to complain about it. Fine. I have the solution. Tomorrow, I’m buying shelves. Big ass shelves. There’s a lack of storage space in this damn house and I don’t care if the shelves cost 500 bucks. I’m buying one. No, I’m buying two. Screw it. And then all the shit across
will have a shelf to sit on. It drives me crazy, all this crap on the
floors. Toys. Dog hair. Dust bunnies. Bits of country fucking
living—everywhere. On the floor. I want nothing on the floor. There. It’s
settled. Shelves. House Land
I’m not a smoker. Smoking is bad haven’t you heard? It’s bad for your health, for your lungs, it’ll give you cancer, and emphysema, and God knows what else. But I swear. I SWEAR if there was a box of smokes on the table right now, I’d chain smoke every single one of them until the box was empty. Then, I’d smoke the box. I should be happy, but I’m not. I don’t smoke, but thankfully, life isn’t just an overflowing barrel of regrets and mistakes--I have liquor. The house is a mess. Well screw it. In the cabinet downstairs, on a shelf, sits Mr. Grand Marnier. Waiting. So, I grab a shot glass from the kitchen, but not thick crappy ones they serve at the local bars. No. Tonight, I grab a fancy shot glass, the kind you put the expensive shit in. It's ultra thin with a delicate rim, and the glass is tinted blue. It even has an elegant mini stem as a base. I open the heavy, wooden cabinet doors. The hinges squeak loudly which makes my jaw clamp down. Lifting up on my tippy toes, I find Mr. Grand Marnier and wrap my fingers around his neck. I don’t smoke, but I can sure as hell drink.
It’s nice outside and the weather is warm. I step out with my hands full, and notice how warm it is. All summer the weather was shit, nothing but rain clouds and cold temperatures. But now that September has rolled around, mother nature decides to pull her head out of her ass and spread some of her fucking sunshine. I huff, kick off my flip flops, and stomp out across the sticky grass. With a fancy shot glass in one hand, and the bottle of GM in the other, I make my way to the hammock. Of course, I step on a friggin acorn on the way. Stupid oak tree. Sometimes, nature can be a bitch. Cursing under my breath, I reach the shabby hammock, its ability to hold my weight without eviscerating makes me think this may not be such a good idea. Screw it. Throwing caution to the wind, I get in with the grace and elegance of a baby walrus. I can’t believe I ate that whole chocolate bar earlier. Crunch. There goes my diet. Anyway, the damn hammock finally slows from a nauseating swing, to a I-think-I-can-pour-without-spillage sway. I pop open Mr. GM. He makes a deep, percussive, hollow sound when his cork is released. My mouth waters. I pour the liquid into the fancy shot glass then wedge the bottle between my knees. It's and the sun has set, and yet, it’s not too dark, lingering sunlight still reflects off an overcast sky. I make out spooky faces in the knotted branches above me. I hate the encroachment of winter. No, actually I don’t care. I take a swig and don’t even feel the burn. I lay back, close my eyes, and cry without vocalizing into sobs. Just a few tears run down the sides of my face. I’m just flushing out my tear ducts, it's been a while.
It’s a nice night. That's what I'm supposed to say. The crickets are chirping and a gentle breeze is brushing through the leaves. Squawks of a God damn screech owl pierce through the air. Sounds like my liquor cabinet. Now, I hear a plane rumble through the clouds above. Shut the hell up! All I want is quiet. No that’s not right. I want stillness. Just for a little while. I want everything to stand still. I lift my head and take another swig. This time, I feel the burn and mentally follow it as the liquor seeps down my throat and fans out into my chest. The oak tree drops an acorn and I hear it tear through the leaves before it hits the ground. And then another one falls, except this one hits me between the eyes. REALLY?! I rub my head. Stupid tree. Now I’m wondering if I had dinner. I can’t remember. Did I eat? Was it any good? Pop. I fill my shot glass back up. I don’t care. My head is heavy. Feels like Mr. GM is going straight to my noggin. But you know what? It feels good. At this very moment, I don’t care about anything. I don’t care about the damn screech owl, or the messy house. I don’t care about my shitty week or the shitty week after that. I don’t care about the war or the bombardments. I don’t care about Ebola, global warming, famine, the economy or the melting polar ice caps. Hell, I don’t even care about the baby seals. I don’t care about anything. I just want it all to still. Be still. Shhhhh. I take another sip from Mr. GM and thwart all effort to lift my head. The screech owl is gone and with it, the plane. Shadows grow tall around me but I don’t notice. The world is darker, and quieter, and now the bottle is empty--but I don’t notice. At last my world is still, but sadly, I don’t notice.
I didn’t even notice.