Sunday, February 03, 2013

DEUCES MINUS ONE

Super Bowl Sunday, and I could not care less. Yeah, I remember seeing Janet Jackson's right breast, nine years ago. Knowing Beyonce was not going to pull off anything similar today, it was easy to avert my eyes from the spectacle and attend to other, more pressing issues, like doing my nails and the dishes.

Had the boys not been busy I might have suggested another poker game. Days like today, it is difficult to keep focused on what Is instead of what Was. It is tempting to wallow in memories, or blot them out with whatever is in supply — tempting, but foolish, because both options come with potentially dangerous side effects, including liver spots, blood clots, ringworm, and uneven tire wear.

Another option is taking a torch to all of it, burning shit down tonight, obliterating the Land of Was with an ugly and sustained flame of hate and disgust. I am pretty pissed off at the world right now, and my knee jerks at the thought of setting fire to the bridges behind me and moving far away. But why? I have plenty of scars from my time in that land, and I earned every one of them. I am not proud of everything I did over the past couple years — fact is, there is a lot I am ashamed of — but hating those days and the people from them is a waste of time and energy. It is not worth it. It is also not what I want, and that still counts for something.

But it does not stop me from listening to a little Kanye and putting my middle fingers up as I walk this road forward while resisting the temptation to be like Mrs. Lot. Back over my shoulder are people I used to know, absent friends I miss. Being in their orbit made my life so much richer. I am angry at my new poverty.

It is easier not to feel. Then I would not have to feel like this. But at least I feel. The alternatives — demolishing those days and pretending they never happened, or wallowing in them in rivers of illicit self-destruction — are unacceptable. I'm Ron Davis, goddammit. I'm not going anywhere.

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