Stop being such a crybaby.
The zombie van (it lives on and on without ever dying) is filled with the left overs from my camping trip.
I can’t get the energy to unpack. Doing so seems like I’m admitting failure. I’m no quitter, but with tears threatening I’m wondering why I bother anymore.
This was my first solo trip since my wife left me. I went to a place that I love, the beach. Planning the trip I was so full of hope and promise. A single man on an adventure.
Seems like the adventure was all in my head, a place where I am spending more and more time. I need to start living in reality.
At the beach, everywhere I looked I saw whole families, and couples, I felt like a fool.
Turning to my usual coping mechanism, I located the closest liquor store and spent the next six days drunk and less drunk.
I starting drinking every day at 10am not stoping, until after dinner, passing out at dark, only to wake, walk the beach before the normal people arrived. In the morning I would occupy my time with introspection and recriminations. Returning midmorning for breakfast and then back to drinking.
It rained most days about 2pm, with a deluge ending my stay o, so I balled up my wet tent and headed home where I sit now looking at the sodden wrinkled mass laying sadly on the drive.
That’s my life right there I thought as tears welled up. A sodden wrinkled mass abandoned on the concrete. And to top it off, you can’t stop crying long enough to even try to make it other than a mess. What a sad fuck you turned out to be.
Sitting here I need a friend to just sit with me and let me talk, but the end of a marriage usually ends the friends you still had. New friends are hard to come by when you are a depressed drunk.
This is where, as a responsible author, I’m supposed to turn the story, provide a ray of hope. Inset some humor or moral lesson, but this is real life my friend. Real life ends in shit and piss. So get over it and move along.
© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013