Lost In The Sauce

The bar’s chatter pinballs in and out of my ears. One conversation catches in one ear before another conversation catches in the other ear. They hit each other out of my head before I can focus and hone in on one of them. It’s almost white noise. 40 year old music plays from the speakers above our heads. My beer sits in front of me; half full or half empty, I’ve never been able to tell the difference. I can confidently say that half of it sits in my belly right now. It’s 1:20PM and I haven’t eaten anything today (unless coffee counts.) I popped a mushroom pill and took a few bong rips before heading here. It’s Friday and I feel the itch to type like I used to years ago. I feel pulled to drink myself drunk. There’s a lady with her boobs out in front of me and she keeps glancing my way. Yes, this feels like the good old days. But these days I have a lady of my own. I can’t imagine she’d be into this one. But honestly, this voice has been stifled for too long. I’ve driven myself crazy too many times lately. She lives across the country and this long distance almost killed me. I almost killed me. My life is my responsibility. I almost shifted the blame to her and got stuck. But no, my soul won’t rest until we grow. This is no longer an act. I’ve dropped the mask. I’m done holding back. I have things to do. I have things to say. Starting with admitting . . . I am not okay. I turned away from who I want to be. I shrunk myself for someone else. I dimmed my own shine. This is my fault. I got lost in the sauce. I love her so much that, if I am not careful, this love can easily consume me. So I must learn to love her and I at the same time. I must burn who I used to be in order to actually change. She is beautiful but complex. I love it. She’s a mess most of the time and I can respect it. But what I can’t do anymore is force these words down. Fear has almost sunk my ship. Fear almost ruined my relationship. She isn’t easy—this lady—but I believe she is worth it. We are worth it. I miss her terribly. In order not to ruin this relationship, I must face my biggest fears and insecurities. It’s a good thing I already wrote a book about this. Now it’s time to go back and read it. Another pair of boobs stares at me. Golly. My lady has a great rack. She really does. And her legs are something special. I could live between her legs for eternity and never get enough of her. Today, I want to fuck her rough. But shucks, she lives across the county and this sexual energy gets repressed. I was almost depressed. I was almost stuck in a pit of my own digging. I almost didn’t make it out in time. I almost died a hundred times. And I’m not sure I don’t die and live in every moment. Two beers in and I start to remember something but it slips out of my grasp right before I have it. My headphones are in, drowning out the random chatter that echoes around the almost empty bar. I don’t have much money—I just checked—but beer and food feels important today. I am not well. I went to heaven and I went to hell, literally and metaphorically. Everything I turn into a metaphor I’ve been cursed to live. I suppose this is to teach me the value of my words. I become what I imagine. I leave a piece of my soul behind with each book. It is up to me to fill these holes with something new. This beer is half empty. Half of it is inside of me; soon to become piss. I miss it. I miss the days when I was ignorant. I asked for this. I asked for love. I asked for a deep connection. Hell, I begged for it. I was so hungry for it. But now I am in it and it isn’t easy. It’s heavy at times. She weighs on my mind. I think myself into misery. And for that, I am sorry. I must change. I must die. And I must climb out of the deepest hole a soul can sink into. I went to heaven and I went to hell. I really did. I think I did. What I tell you is probably true. Nothing is new. Everything is borrowed. There is no tomorrow, there is only this moment. A ceiling fan spins in front of me and I am reminded we never get time again, do we? The fan spins and there goes a second. I type and hope this second is not a meaningless sacrifice—a falling grain of sand in the hour glass of my time that amounts to nothing. Worthless typing that means everything to me. How silly. One more beer and I will be able to face my fears. Who the fuck could read this and get something out of it? You? Nah. I doubt that. Me? No, this will get lost in the sea of infinite typing and stories. I haven’t lived enough to be wise. I have no right to write. Yet, I still write. I have no right to love her as much as I do, yet, I do. Fuck, it always comes back to her. How do I focus on me? Is that selfish or exactly what I need? . . . Shit! Where did this beer go?? In my belly already? No way. I don’t remember drinking it. Shit, I have to drive. This whole world is a giant beehive floating in an infinite and expanding ‘space’. How weird. There could be a black hole up there and none of us would even know. Bottoms up. There goes the beer. Rock bottom can go deeper if you keep digging—if you keep feeding your mind dynamite—there is no end to the bottom. We can always dig a little deeper, can’t we? We can always think ourselves into more misery. What an opportunity this is to paint our destiny. Will it be a painting of fear or courage? That’s the question here. Fuck, they brought me the check. It’s probably time to go. I am one drink away from no self-respect. How fun. How neat. Play this afternoon on repeat for me so I can scream when I need to. She matters, this chatter does not matter. One more drink and I’ll be buzzed. How fun. How numb that will be. What a silly story this life is. Remind me to never be as serious as this again, will ya? And please remind me to never be this nonchalant with my seconds ever again, will ya?  . . . Gracias, bonita.

CH 8/28/26