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knot meat
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on night's he drank and masturbated he would sometimes play a game. he'd say to himself, i wouldn't get drunk tonight if only she'd call, if only she knew how lonely i was tonight. the truth, he knew, was that she always would call, sometimes after, sometimes during, and he'd hide his drunkness and feign tiredness. the real truth was that it didn't matter if she called before, or at all. everynight he decided to stay in and glut himself on trash tv, whiskey, junk food, masturbating like the forty-six year old balding security guard he often imagined within his 20 year old body, it was really his quiet only way of voicing that it didn't matter if she called. it was his way of voicing what he could never tell to her or even himself, or his parents who just loved photo albums filled with trophies and wedding dresses and summer condoes: that he never would really try. because what he really wanted was to get drunk and forget who he was for a night, to wake up the next day just a little blanker, everyday a little closer to the type of people he saw passing him everyday and envied, people who were happy with what they had because they didn't think about it much, at least not often, not really. and in this, his only spirituality, jack daniels was his ferrier, his savior. and it didn't really mattered if she called, or if there was a time becoming less and less clear when he had waited for it before assuming that forgetting is all that can be done.
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040131
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