Tonight is for Bourbon

            Jesus Christ how did I get myself in such a predicament, sitting here in this dingy apartment without so much as a warm breeze much less anything remotely resembling air conditioning. To my initial left sits a bottle of freshly cracked open Evan Williams with a modest portion poured into a small mason’s jar, to my right the empty expanse of a room rarely used in this sorry excuse for a Polish Penthouse. In front of me is this beastly geriatric excuse of a laptop expect me to put my fingers to work, to type something somewhat coherent or at least the rough musing and ramblings of a confused and carefree twenty something that thinks he knows the fucking world for what it really is. I sit here staring at these surroundings knowing what I should do and how to do it and all I can think of is smoking a god damned cigarette. The ash tray next to the bourbon taunts me, practically screams at me to scrounge up whatever pocket change I can find in this place and go buy another pack of smokes. The fucking things will be the death of me one day and I do not even care.

            So what do I do? I give in to the vice that scream into my head like the tortured yells of the damned that lie hell bound, whether it be a figurative hell or some true Hell that awaits us as I have been spoon-fed by many a zealot. I care for neither and merely shake my head taking another draw from the cancer ridden stick that will no doubt one day cause me for more pain than the joy it does now. There are days I realize my self destructive nature, and others I ignore it like a child ignores his vegetables. I’m delusional and I make no effort to hide it, in fact I daresay I prefer it that way, as some wise old bastard once said, “Ignorance is Bliss”.  I suppose I should make something of these incoherent ramblings, perhaps tell some form of a narrative but I cannot quite place my finger on what, regardless I ask not a one of you shed a tear or feel concern or pity for my plights. I do not ask for sympathy, and not for some simple reason as pride or to retain some feeling of self worth, I just do not like empathetic behavior. I am not altruistic nor to I pretend to be, I have never really been capable of empathy, sympathy, or even remote concern for others and things they do. It all truly seems like a waste of good thought to me, and if I paint myself the antagonist for these thoughts then by all means frame me that way.

            What was the point of all this, and what did I expect to gain. I’ll chalk this one up to a rusty mind, dry wit, and out of practice fingers. As I look at the ever lessening glass of bourbon I think to myself that there is something in me to bring out, something even I haven’t seen yet and god dammit I will drag the fucker out with a crow bar if I have to kicking and screaming and covered in blood. I’ll birth the damn thing myself, feed it, and nurture it until the time is right, then when its time to sit down with it and tell it about the birds and the bees I can just toss it down the slaughterhouse chute until it becomes just another process product of an overactive self indulgent society hell-bent on watching the world burn. And I will just stand there in awe… and I am going to laugh.