epitaph.

June 5, 2006…and perhaps, November 16th, 2012…?

After baring my soul to its last shred, I decided I needed a walk.

I wandered aimlessly for a short while, and soon found myself in the confines of Beenzys bar and grill.  Located conveniently down the street.

Surrounded by large, softball playing, man hating lesbians, I decided to have a beer.  At least here I was safe.  I watched an older couple seated next to me at the bar, I guessed mid-forties and was right.  They were so loving, and so tender, having their drinks and completely connected to each other.  I ignored them.

I sucked down fermented hops as quickly as they came into my hands, three beers later I realized that the older couple had left, and to my utter surprise, they left behind three more beers in a cold bucket as well.  The bartender, wearing a t-shirt that said, your girlfriend is wearing my other shirt, looked over at me and shrugged.  I smiled and pulled the bucket closer.

I drank two of those, and gave the other one to a large friendly lesbian to my right.  She seemed pleasant enough, Sabrina, the bartender with the humorous shirt and a cute face, she sported the stereotypical bangs with the short style behind that seems to be the badge of lesbianism everywhere.  Before long she had migrated to the other side of the bar to share a basket of hot wings with the large group of jersey clad lesbians that had staked claim there.  I watched, mouth watering, gods, I was so hungry, I wanted nothing more than to insert myself into that conversation and usurp some fiery chicken parts.

Noticing the looks of suspicion thrown my way, I remembered I had a penis and resolved to stop off at dunkin donuts on the walk, eh hem, stumble home.  The other bartender, Heather, recognized me from my nights of karaoke there and asked me when I was going to come over and sing a song or two for her, she flattered me for a moment before I realized I really wasn’t that good.  I listened as the song ‘black’ came on. 

and all I taught her was, everything…”

I heard the police come on again right after and sang along to that as well  ‘I can’t stand losing you’.  Why must everything I see and hear remind me of loss?

I walked home fighting the urge to dial the whole time, flexing my arms convulsively and mouthing epithets to myself, “you are not going to call, you are not, you are not going to fucking call.”  I was shocked when I finally ended up here on this bed, full of a bagel and boston creme donut.  Not one idiotic outgoing call to be found.

I do not want to die.

Really, I mean that, I want to do well, I do.  It simply is just terribly tempting to slip into oblivion when you lose hope.  Perhaps that is my problem, I need some type of hope injection device, a hope IV if you will, attached to me, feeding me images of things that are not and could be.  Having done so much for nothing, it is hard to ever want to do anything again.  Such a colossal failure weighs a metric ton.

I hate wasting my breath, partly because I feel like I have very little of it left, and because it just ends up frustrating me.

I want to write for a living, this I know.  Somewhere somehow, I would like to make a living putting words on paper, at this point, anywhere will do.  If I survive this, I am determined to succeed in my chosen profession.  With that said, I am determined to succeed in my chosen profession.  I understood that the only way I could actually rid myself of life is by accident, and unfortunately, I am hardly that stupid.

I did think about my epitaph for a moment during my walk, it made me laugh out loud.

‘Here lies John, Juan, Tobas, Manuel Aguilera.  Devoted father, and one-time husband.  He lived his life like a plinko contestant, choosing pathways much like that bouncing red disk, that more often than not, ended in the zero slot.  He will missed my many, but mostly by his children and a girl or two who might have been unlucky enough to fall in love with his substance-less charm.  Although he died full of shame and regret, us perverted drinking buddies who sacrificed a weekend of boozing for this chunk of rock, can only hope that life everlasting consists of ethereal shower peek a boos, and ectoplasmic dressing room hi-jinks, because at least the poor, sad, son of a bitch will have something better to look at than the rest of us.’

I’ll fucking drink to that.

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