The Bender

Halfway through my bender and I don’t feel drunk and I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel sad and I don’t feel changed. I’m just immaculately numbed to thoughts right now, but overloaded and corrupted by them. I’m  split opened and headed in two directions.

The glass isn’t half full, or half empty, it’s just shattered. It’s a million shards of nothing. I’m hard of hearing so I don’t hear a thing you’re saying. It’s mumbled gibberish anyway.

I don’t feel much and maybe that is the point of losing yourself in yourself. You get so completely meta that nothing really matters or stands out. It’s like a square inside a square inside a square until you just have a bunch of boxes with nothing to put inside.

I wish I had nothing inside me. I wish I was a taxidermied puppy. I wish I could destroy my ego. I wish I could just let go of the helium balloon and let it fly away because it said happy birthday, but it was not my name written in Sharpie.

‘Happy birthday, Sam.’

I thought this bender would be a shitstorm, something that would make the spiral cinematic, but it’s boring. It’s just mundane misery… ketchup. It’s an Adam Sandler movie. Scotch aged three months in a plastic barrel. It’s miniature golf. Six donuts, not a dozen. I expected more out of my spiral. I expected  fireworks. I got a reverse candle flaming out. I got a single light on the Christmas tree shortening. I got a how do ya’ do.

I’m terribly drunk, but not really drunk. Just terrible. Half drunk, but ready to drink more, or maybe go to sleep, or maybe throw paint against the wall. Throw books out the windows. What do I care about psychology, or biology?

Reading the back of beer cans, out loud, so it seems like there’s somebody else here. Like I’m not alone. Like the alcohol isn’t my only companion.

I’m down in the lower rung. I’m repeating the song the sad bluesmen sung.  I’m without a care. Without a spare. Come slice me open like a pear. I’m floundering like a fish upon the shore. Falling like a shooting star without a wish.

I’m ready to recycle myself. Throw me in with the aluminum. Fold me over and cook me in the oven. I’m a filet mignon. I try. I try. I try. But all I do is wrong. This life, obviously, is meant to live alone. So silence keeps me company, as I lay my head on the pillow, and sink deep into its soul. The void welcomes me into its cold, dark arms, gives me a hug that lets me dream of nothing at all — and that’s perfectly fine with me.


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