That conversation didn’t go down very smoothly. Maybe it was the shot of tequila that I had brought myself to couple with it. Don’t worry, I’m not a drunk, I only drink socially. Or while writing, though I have been writing a lot more recently. No, I’m not a drunk. I’m a wordsmith!
If anything, I’m an insomniac, confused, a father and a husband, restless, a Soldier. No cause to addle for the culmination of the antecedent however, neither you nor I must worry. Worry? Who? Me? You can keep it. Only please to leave me with remnant enough to stave off the worst of decisions: Indetermination.
I still know how to swim. Hell, I’m a veritable fish, thus my rationale to not cannibalize, sans taste of course. Those who actually know me will understand. They also continue to make me, and for this gift I presume to ooze gratitude. It can be done!
It’s good, the distraction from the kick rocks attitude I’ve been projecting of late. Much as if the feeling were a lap dance just ended. We paid before and so we pay after. Yet the true travesty is acceptance. And perhaps not riding my motorcycle nearly enough either. Amongst others, of this I am certain.
