Most things that plague my mind just keep me up at night but guilt keeps me up during the day. If it weren’t for guilt I’d have fallen asleep and never woken up for lunch years ago. I feel genuinely shitty about a lot of things but, as it goes, regret has become a staple in my brand. Part of regret is that it sticks with you regardless of what you want. The other half is that it partially sticks around because you kind of want it to.
That’s the part that people ignore and pretend isn’t true. But holding onto anything from the past is an act of regression by definition. I think for me, I hold onto things because wallowing is an easy way to get pity and a decent enough excuse to blow off responsibilities. But there are legitimate moments in my past that, over time, have proved indelible, contrary to the course of action I prefer.
People love to give advice and hate to take it. I’m one of those people. I don’t pretend to have any or all answers but there’s nothing better than telling someone what to do to make you feel like you’ve got your shit together. It’s a form of denial in a way. If someone comes to you with a question then it must seem like you at least know something. In my case, people seek me out when they’re trying to figure out how to get the girl or guy. Very rarely has anyone asked for my opinion on how to keep that person around. Often they’ll ask the best way to get over being dumped. It comes with the territory I guess.
I find that, because I write as much as I do, people have created an image of me that doesn’t really exist. It’s a better version of me than reality so naturally I embrace it. Reaping the benefits of being painted as a tortured soul is definitely not something that I harbor any guilt about. At least not yet.
In my defense, I’m not nearly established enough in any field, let alone writing, to have developed any semblance of integrity (thank God). The funny part to me is that, if taken at face value, there isn’t anything I’ve said that’s actually deep or poetic. And if I have I stole it or did it by accident. My talents, if you can soberly call it that, are best suited for gas station stall walls. So if it ever occurs to you that I might be of some assistance in your tough times and trials and tribulations I urge to take a moment to reconsider. Not only do I lack the answers, I don’t care about your business.
Unless you have a question concerning how to get rid of a hangover, how to make a pipe out of an apple, or ruin a good thing I’m no use. But that’s something about myself I’ve come to accept. And on certain sunny days it’s something I like. I know that most, if not all, people have their own issues. Knowing that makes day to day life a little easier.
I don’t know or think that many people are so imbedded in a struggle that it defines them. Maybe minorities I guess. Who knows, I’m talking out of my ass. What I’m saying is that changing the way you live, the way you’ve lived for most of your life, seems hard as hell and it’s still a lot harder than it looks. Temptation itself becomes the thing you crave.
It stops being about smoke filled rooms or dank dive bars or the occasional one night stand or the fading away of responsibilities. You begin to miss the hangovers and the guilt and shame and the burnt up nostrils. All of this you begin to remember with a smirk of nostalgia because your brain and body want any excuse for you to cave. It’s like playing yourself in chess and at the end of every day you win the big prize but still feel like a loser inside.
Two Sundays ago I awoke in a haze, as I often do. You tend to forget a lot of nights when your definition of what’s worth celebrating is as loose as mine. As is tradition, the fragmented memories of the prior three or four days came flooding in. I find that both demons are best dealt with by just plainly beating them off. As I recounted the nights past I could feel my face getting hot. I recalled a bar, and then another and another, then a party, and two more after that, then wrestling, and endless train rides. In recounting a spontaneous dance off with a temporary best friend, I smirked. It was then that I realized much to my dismay, that my lip was split wide open. I did remember getting into a fight but I received no punches during the transaction. This meant there was an exchange of violent nature that was entirely absent from what vignettes I was able to piece together.
If life were the movie it often seems like it is, there’d have been a mirror in that moment, towards which I would have examined my bloody face in disgust, taking pity on myself. My knuckles were scuffed and despite my inability to recollect, the story was obvious. I had opened my mouth too wide or for too long, as I tend to do, and offended someone who had probably boasted about being un-offendable. I have a nasty habit of taking such gestures as challenges.
The following Sunday, this Sunday past, I woke up clear headed, remembering the entirety of the boring night that lead to morning. There was still a faint hint of mint on my breath from the toothpaste I remembered to use before bed. There were no dried up nostrils or urges to vomit or fluctuations between unbearably hot or cold. It was pleasant and dull and it is a normal occurrence for most people. It’s taking some getting used to but if anyone needs a break it’s my bank account and liver, a duo that have been attached at my hip up ‘til now.
There’s no use living with regret or much of anything that ought to be buried. The feeling of needing to be punished is hard to shake but there are worse circumstances to live with than getting off easy. Living the lifestyle I chose would be much easier if only I could be the victim of it. Unfortunately, that isn’t ever the case. So cheers. Here’s to a few more boring Sunday mornings.
