johnotronic

She postponed. Just a few hours. Stuff to do, you know. Oh, and Rennie will be joining us.

Blows me off. Declines. Postpones. Reschedules. Each time, hacking me just a little smaller, like a lumberjack before an oak. No, not an oak. Too strong. More like a sapling.

It drives me to drink. Mind you, it's a short drive. Sometimes just breathing the fucking air drives me to drink.

So here I sit, in front of the computer in my dirty one-bedroom apartment, playing this record entirely too loud and gulping the High Life I juxtapose against this low life of mine. Liquid irony. I know I'm going to see her in a few hours, and I really shouldn't be drunk. But you know what? She won't even notice. And that cuts in a whole new direction.

This fucking frienship, this interstate relationship, it's so hollow. No substance. Dinner and a movie. Like a sexless marriage. How was your day? Fine. Yours? Can't complain. Pass the peas?

I need contact. A relationship with substance. Something more than the casual banality of my social circles. Mundanity over a beer, mindless anecdotes while stocking the front of the store. I need to connect.

So my lips connect with the cold aluminum of my can, my throat with the Champagne of Beers. My ears connect to the pop version of what is left of Kyuss. My fingers connect to the keyboard. This is the connection I get.

And I take it.