Whiskey Diary

I enjoy a good whiskey on the rocks, black label if they've got it, or occasionally McCallen 12. My intrigue begins with some degree of intoxication that overwhelms -in a disruptive yet adventurous way. The illusion describes a time when things were simpler, during which you envied a persons hair cut and silhouette, not her updated version of your smartphone. Because the day a woman's smartphone takes precedence over her physique or intrigue is the day we bury our heads in a sand of microphones. Perhaps we are hoping a modern mummification will revive us from this decomposition of societal affairs. Either that or we simply can't stand ourselves.

I was burying my head every day I or anyone else poured me a glass to bring me closer to the silence I never held within. I was figuratively placing my fist in the bell of my French horn and giving it just the right amount of muffle. Like a muzzle, I knew there were words that I needed suffocated and sounds I needed muted. The chatter in my head was like six conversations in unison, each of which I'd taken a position on- or two for that matter.

I guess I wrote it down because there was someone I was hoping would read it, no one in particular just a comrade on this journey through humiliation, weakness and deceit. I thought my strong stomach could keep me from cowardice or my education would fight off any challengers. My sharp tongue never failed to cut a bitch if she tried me on for size, but it did fail to block any fist regardless of my strength in pride. I'm over fishing for drive in a bottle of whiskey, time to open my eyes to a bright light of get-your-shit-together.