Make Drinks, Not Promises

You want to hear something funny that happened to me today? I hope you don’t say no, since I’m on the patio of my local town saloon, roughly six hours past high noon, aimlessly thinking as I stare up at the moon and writing these very words that I now recite for you. So if I may, I shall politely presume that your answer is yes. And if it isn’t…well, I apologize because at the moment it’s the only tune that’s playing. So please respect this small commune as we share our feels in this cozy little room, collectively wrapping our individual feelings together like an awkwardly intimate heart and soul cocoon.
Glad that’s out of the way.
Back to today. I think most of you know that several years ago I was dealt a blow of immeasurable magnitude, causing me to throw an entire career to the road as I diverted my entire existence toward destroying as much hate and woe as I possibly could. I did this as I was gripped by an influence that the mother I lost would always bestow with a hold so tight that, unequivocally, I know will never lighten up or come even remotely close to ever letting go.
So yeah.
I think as far as that whole part of the story, I can digress. Because if you read literally anything else I’ve written, it won’t take long to learn more than you probably want to know about her, the impact her death had on me, and how confusingly, oxy-moronically, luminously dark I’ve become as a result.
But you see, I had no other choice but to tee this part of the read up by sharing, at the very least, a brief, abbreviated version of the history which led to this very moment. Now, I commit (admittedly with glee) that for the remainder of this poem, I will agree that you have no cause to fret, as you are all now set free; relieved from the pain which I’m fully aware that I far too often share through sad recounts and melancholy pleas.
Don’t say I never did anything for you.
But seriously…I wish I could articulate the enormous degree of sheer appreciation that I should more often decree for each and every beautiful person who’s taken the time to read the things that I’ve written. I don’t say this enough, but the sensation one experiences when they’re told that someone relates to their writing, or that their work resonates is so powerful it can bring one to their knees. So let me express my gratitude. No pain tonight. Fair?
Man. I should do this more often.
So today I was caught in typical deep thought about pretty much everything I just brought to attention with my aforementioned words which, for you, have carefully been brought. I realized, looking at all the past things that I’ve jot, that the vast majority of themes which I spot are plagued and distraught by the same sad and depressingly dark plot. A realization which, amidst my reflection, suddenly struck me with a thought. A thought (I’ve now since been taught) that I’ve subconsciously sought since that most impacting of days; when the straight life I was used to was tied into a most impossible knot.
For the first time in thirty months, eighteen days, and roughly two hours and forty-seven minutes…I felt relief.
To be honest, I have no idea whatsoever that caused this spark which had finally caused my consistently low mood start to climb, or why it happened to occur at this particular time, or what forces were working to make it so abruptly ignite; liberating my mind from its pitch black paradigm. The only thing I can be sure of is that I was compelled to adjust the tones of this metaphorical rhyme that has incessantly been my life since she the day that I lost her; the day that she died.
It was one of those fabled, fleeting moments in life that we dream of; a moment that most spend time wondering if they actually exist or whether our culture deceitfully represents them through fiction to keep us from succumbing to the harsh reality that, sadly, most are forced to share. I would almost go as far as to say that this moment was “indescribable”. Although I won’t go quite that far. No, I know better than that.
Want to know why?
Because “indescribable” is a fucking oxy-moron, that’s why. Like, who the hell allowed it to even become an actual word? Webster? Who even is Webster? He sounds like a huge bitch, to be honest. I mean come on. One cannot claim an inability to describe something while simultaneously using the very word asserting their claim to describe it. Like what the fuck, you guys?
Whatever.
So, here we are. Finally released from the negativity which for so long I’ve been scarred. Oh, and by the way, I know at the start I said I was sky-gazing on a patio, but I’ve since moved to the inside corner of an adjacent bar. See, I really enjoy posting up from afar, observing the people as I smoke a cigar, on occasion intentionally making awkward eye contact with folks as if their eyes were that very same star from stanza one. Well technically, I should have said moon, because that’s what I said I was looking at earlier in this poem; but moon doesn’t rhyme with cigar. So for anyone that may have picked up on that hopefully subtle difference; please, be silent. Like the lamb.
Or I will feed your inanimate corpse to those creepy Hannibal pigs after providing my inordinately sophisticated dog Mr. Baxter a once-in-a-lifetime feast of your human brains. Brains, obviously, which lacked any semblance of intelligence; a candid truth made obvious by the simple fact that their recently deceased owner failed to abide by a very simple instruction.
So yeah. If you picked up on that…shh.
As I continue writing with this long-awaited perspective that now abounds, I suppose its high time we arrive at the underlying theme which (for these 1,031 words) could be found lurking about these pages in a sort of subtle, poetic background. A point I’ve been waiting to make that for this entire time has been handcuffed; its wrists tightly bound in anticipation of the most profound moment to come around and confound, astound, and surround each and every person who experiences this prose with a most relatable, common ground.
By the way, there are a shit ton of words that rhyme with ground. Like Italian greyhound, burial mound, merry-go-round, circle around, and etcetera. Well not that last one but you get my point. Wait. Circle around. As in, let me now circle around back to the point I was just making before this particular stanza of rhyme distracted me from the message I’ve been waiting to expound. A message that, despite how long it’s taken to arrive, is actually quite simple.
Drinks.
Yes, you heard me right. Drinks. And I’m going to refrain from guessing whether or not that is making any sense whatsoever at the moment. It probably shouldn’t, because a word such as “drinks” doesn’t even loosely relate to anything I’ve mentioned so far. So technically, if you found some kind of connection between the two, you either don’t understand what words mean on a fundamental level, or you’re some kind of savant that can read between the lines so deeply its scary. In fact, now that I say that, if its the latter – please keep it to yourself. Because that would kind of creep me out.
So yes, back to my message: drinks. The reason I thought of that particular word as it applies to the motif I could relay with this 0.7 Pilot G2 filled with black ink was this: its time I end my tendency to over analyze and overthink. Its time that all of the black that I’m used to turns into something vibrant, like pink. Ok, maybe not pink. Pink reminds me of this traumatizing moment I had in 5th grade at the old skating rink. And no, I will not elaborate. The point is, I’m tired of all the promises I feel pressured to keep. Not the ones I’ve made in regard to my life and what I intend to do with it. No, those promises define me; they’re the sole influence that keeps my values and actions in sync. The promises I refer to, ones of which I now announce I’ve severed the link, are the ones made to society. The ones which serve only to degrade my self-perception, sadistically watching my dwindling confidence as it plummets and sinks with an expressionless smile and emotionless wink.
And that, my friends, brings us to the one point in this poem where I very clearly explain what I mean with all of this disorganized, scattered banter.
There is one thing I realized today as I took a hard look at life. A thing that almost always rings true. A thing which, I imagine, applies to us all. From the tallest of tall to the smallest of small. From the one’s sleeping in gutters to those waltzing at balls. From the center stage dancer to flowers on the wall. The philosophical pacifist to the meathead who brawls. That goofy croquet club to Tom Brady’s football. From the Qui Gon of Jinns to the Darthest of Mauls.
I realized, quite simply, that drinking alcohol from a crisp, cold flagon is SO much more fun than being lame and pondering existentialism.
Anticlimactic?
Well, I hate to say this since its so out of character…but too bad. Because that’s the earth-shattering, refreshingly shallow reality that I discovered this evening as I gazed so deeply into the moon. Or star. Whichever the fuck it was. So I’m going to make one final, meaningful statement. A statement of which I hope I can maintain an intimate awareness of for the remainder of my years on this Earth.
And despite the whimsical tone that’s accompanied this piece so far, you should probably take the following statement to heart. So please…I respectfully ask that you remember these words, for they’re spoken genuinely from the most doubting of Thomas’s.
Always make the strongest of drinks. For drinks are indescribably more fun than life’s impossible promises.

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