I used to be able to sit and think for long periods of time. This was before my constant sips of Crown Royal slowly pooled together into what most other people call an “alcohol problem” (I prefer to think of it as the fine aging process). Back then, though, I used to work out entire books and plays that I could never remember when I was close enough to a pen and paper to transcribe. All my attempts to recapture that brilliance, that cathartic release fell suddenly came out trite, workmanlike. Eventually I stopped trying. My imagination became less elaborate; in short order it was consigned to replaying old memories and scenes from TV shows I had watched in the past few days.
I don’t remember what made me leave Omaha. It was sudden…in not even 72 hours I had gone from working at a call center taking abuse from the mentally and socially incompetent to sitting on a Greyhound bound for the southwest.
My eyes hurt, there’s a few dried up puke bits in my mouth, I’ve got the Marseillaise playing on loop in my head and I’m on the ground. Again. I don’t remember what town I’m in.