Filled up on bowling alley pizza and seven pints of Blue Moon, it is 2 am. My mister is asleep in the middle of our bed; the mattress was a gift from my dead aunt. It’s the couch for me tonight, and I prefer it. I’m into the whiskey now, and I won’t put head to pillow until I’ve finished the bottle taking up too much space in the freezer. I don’t even feel drunk, and that bothers me. It’s Sunday morning, technically, and I’ve been drinking since 5:30 Saturday evening. My mother is an alcoholic.
What I’m feeling this moment–what I have been feeling every waking moment lately–this isn’t melancholy. Melancholy, I can embrace, because melancholy is fitful.
This isn’t melancholy. I know exactly what’s wrong with me, and I fear it won’t ever leave.