FIX THE AIR-CONDITIONER

I could say I was listening to Chopin, but that would be a lie. I could say I was reading Camus, but that would be a lie. (Mother died today. Or was it yesterday?) I could say I was exercising, but that would be a lie. I could say I was writing, but that would be a lie. (I'm thinking.) 

What is the truth? It's a question we often ask, but there are no answers. You must content yourself with simple truths if you want answers. I'm lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head. I don't want to rise. It is one of the benefits of retirement, but it is also a sign of mental illness. 

Sometimes when I have been drinking, which I have been doing more frequently than usual, I won't rise until mid-afternoon. I finally convince myself I need to take my meds and vitamins. I need to eat. I need to take a shit. I need to shower. I need to inject meaning into my life even if it's returning to the bar and staring at a game on the television in a Zen-like state. 

I rose a half hour ago to take two milligrams of Xanax. Like Socrates who could feel the poison from the hemlock he was forced to take to execute his own death sentence rising from his feet, I can feel the relaxing effects beginning in my feet and moving slowly upwards. It's similar to sitting in the water at the beach and letting the small waves wash over you. 

When the body feels tranquil, the brain rests. But my brain is similar to a balloon that is filled with so much air it is on the point of explosion. I can imagine throwing my brain against a wall and watching the goo streak downwards as if I were a painter admiring my abstract art. 

I am alone. I can't remember the last time I passed the night with anyone. During my marriages I often slept alone or I would crawl into bed with one of my boys. I found the moment more comforting hugging a son while telling him a story in contrast to whispering sweet nothings into the ear of a spouse while I fondled her tits. 

But now I'm utterly alone. There is no communication with the exes and the boys have moved on with their lives. They seldom call. And no differently than most loving parents, I wonder where the time went. It was just minutes ago that I was living with my father, mother, brothers and sisters. It was just seconds ago that I was holding one of my boys in my arms. 

I look at my approaching demise in seconds rather than minutes. As soon as I'm dead, my own family will throw my writings into the garbage and erase my computer. I have been too edgy for them. They are disgusted that I cut right through the bone and suck out all the marrow until I vomit. They don't understand my perspective. They don't comprehend my insights. They don't appreciate my humor. 

I'm tired of chasing my tail relating the local political scene. I should go to Lisbon or Buenos Aires or Montreal. By the time I take another two milligrams of Xanax within 24 hours, I will be filled with an anxiety precipitated by depression. I may have exacerbated my abysmal condition with too much alcohol from the previous night. Am I condemned to loneliness? (The women come and go talking of Michelangelo) 

I want to leave because Brownsville is giving me claustrophobia, but I can't get outta bed. Ni modo. Vamos a ver.

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