So, here we go. Again.
It’s finally that time of the year again when all motivations to subsist would escape me, gradually at first — unwashed dishes and cheap wine in a coffee mug, unreturned calls from my boss, creased shirts and mismatched socks on a Monday — then later, well, we know how it ends; and it rarely ends well. I’m half-expecting that a series of bad decisions will already have been made by the end of this week. But considering how I’ve outdone myself these past years, surely I tend to underestimate. While most people could no longer contain their excitement for Christmastime, I keep myself away from objects I could slam my head onto. I easily get frustrated, and I get mad when people couldn’t understand me. I don’t need sympathy, that’s what I say. What I need is a pack of cigarettes, sixty-five tequila shots, a very long sleep, and maybe a ten-wheeler truck that would ram into me until the necessity to drink the remaining quarter of this year away is long gone. But, instead, I find myself getting in line for the cashier, my hands clutching a grocery basket. Look at what I’ve got: a box of fresh milk, canned goods, two loaves of bread, a large bottle of Coca-cola. “Cash,” I told the cashier. I keep a forced smile at the lady behind the counter as she scans the bar code of a really sharp knife. I walk my way home. ■