Wednesday, April 1, 2009

STRENGTH

My Speedball pen remains dunked in the jar where Unico olives once nestled. The black water is still, undisturbed, keeping mum the two-week secret that the C6 nib no longer holds ink, encrusted in rust.

Greasy dishes teeter in precarious mismatched stacks, the Lee Kum Kee sauces now impenetrable, some flaking. No clean cutlery. I must reach into the bowels of the drawer to yank out third-string forks, undesireable because of their ostentatious design. I prefer simple. The dishwasher is empty.

Lying on cool tiles gazing at the toilet. On my side. On my back is too many spins. Four glasses of shiraz and three Dos Equis too many.

I tell myself: You've done worse. You've been worse. The dishes will get scrubbed. The nib will get replaced. You will wake up not on the floor, but in your bed. You can sleep in if you want to.

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