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Another night wasted at home, sitting alone but for the cold comfort of whiskey marking its searing trail down into my heart. I feel like something is missing, but I cannot see what it is. Something about my life is unfulfilling. Possibly it’s the lack of a job, but that isn’t likely. I think it has more to do with the regrets that linger like tendrils of insidious darkness, poisoning any happy thought that I have like a needle to a fly. I look back at the time and travails that brought me to this point, and I feel nothing. But that’s only because I’ve successfully anesthetized myself with the liberal application of my friend Jack Daniel’s delicious concoction, which has been the demise of so many a good man before I. I feel like I have slid headlong into addiction and despondency, regret and longing for a future that three years ago looked, oh, so bright; now it looks bleak and predicted—there will be no adventure for me. No grand loves, no epic tales, nothing but the soft grey fog of middle-class oblivion. C’est la vie.


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