A drunken soliloquy
I started writing this at a corner of the bar in a loud pub. I wanted to say dingy but I'm in no mood to romanticize anything seeing as how my own romance has shattered just as surely as my own heart.
I feel awful. Awfully sad. Awfully lonely in a crowd of strangers making an awful racket. They call it happy hours but I arrived too late in more ways than one. Someone's doing a pretty good rendition of a Mandarin love song but what did I know. I did mention it was a loud pub. It was dim, and it was smoky, but the hazy ambience might as well have been sunshine to my grief-clouded eyes.
I'm down three-quarters of my three-quarter pint of stout but the escape I sought proved more elusive than I gave credit for. Who am I trying to kid anyway. Everywhere I turn, I see her.
In the pool table at the back of the room, seeming to mock my promise of shooting a few rounds with her, now doomed to forever remain unfulfilled.
In the sashaying miniskirt on the sashaying hips of a woman by whom I made a futile attempt to be distracted, the same denim type I once slid slowly off her.
In the cigarettes littering the bartop, the couple cozying at the back, the laughter, the voices, the pencil I gripped, and the scraps of paper meant for song requests into which I'm now pouring out my soul.
Really, who am I kidding. I needed a stronger drink. I gestured to the bartender for a double shot on ice and took a swig full of Scotland's strongest and misguided hopes. And in a brief moment of clarity, I thought I knew how it felt like having jet fuel poured down my throat.
I looked over at my friend. He's playing a stupid drinking game of dice with the waitress. I almost fancied I saw God playing dice with my feelings. God don't play dice. I know.
My whisky-polluted blood began a preschoolers' percussion concert in my head but it wasn't enough to drown out the questions in my mind.
"What the hell happened?"
"What did I do to make you so pissed at me?"
"Why am I not trying to win you back?"
What do I do now. The world still spins, time runs, but I feel I'm standing still watching the seconds tick by, praying for I know not what. I just know I'll stop writing, pack up these scraps, join my friend for a game, go home, sleep it off, edit what I've written and post it.
This is my life. Words fail me.
I feel awful. Awfully sad. Awfully lonely in a crowd of strangers making an awful racket. They call it happy hours but I arrived too late in more ways than one. Someone's doing a pretty good rendition of a Mandarin love song but what did I know. I did mention it was a loud pub. It was dim, and it was smoky, but the hazy ambience might as well have been sunshine to my grief-clouded eyes.
I'm down three-quarters of my three-quarter pint of stout but the escape I sought proved more elusive than I gave credit for. Who am I trying to kid anyway. Everywhere I turn, I see her.
In the pool table at the back of the room, seeming to mock my promise of shooting a few rounds with her, now doomed to forever remain unfulfilled.
In the sashaying miniskirt on the sashaying hips of a woman by whom I made a futile attempt to be distracted, the same denim type I once slid slowly off her.
In the cigarettes littering the bartop, the couple cozying at the back, the laughter, the voices, the pencil I gripped, and the scraps of paper meant for song requests into which I'm now pouring out my soul.
Really, who am I kidding. I needed a stronger drink. I gestured to the bartender for a double shot on ice and took a swig full of Scotland's strongest and misguided hopes. And in a brief moment of clarity, I thought I knew how it felt like having jet fuel poured down my throat.
I looked over at my friend. He's playing a stupid drinking game of dice with the waitress. I almost fancied I saw God playing dice with my feelings. God don't play dice. I know.
My whisky-polluted blood began a preschoolers' percussion concert in my head but it wasn't enough to drown out the questions in my mind.
"What the hell happened?"
"What did I do to make you so pissed at me?"
"Why am I not trying to win you back?"
What do I do now. The world still spins, time runs, but I feel I'm standing still watching the seconds tick by, praying for I know not what. I just know I'll stop writing, pack up these scraps, join my friend for a game, go home, sleep it off, edit what I've written and post it.
This is my life. Words fail me.
posted by caffeinated at 10:43 PM
4 Comments:
Words fail us... but we try anyway.
Because sometimes, it's all we have.
That sounds very melancholic there.. but hey, hang in there while you can. It'll pass. :)
No. Words do not fail you.
Perhaps eloquence and the ability to pour out your heart will be your saving grace.
nicely put alynna.
Hi yee, thanks for your kind words.
Hi jackie, wish i shared your optimism. thanks for taking the bother to comment. :)
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