Saturday, mid-month of December

Saturday, mid-month of December. End of Autumn, end of one adult life.
Being a person who was always running behind.

Time to stop completely and stop breathing the oxygen of misguided, misinterpreted expectations.

Revived by coffee and caffeine pills, put to sleep by beer and seroquel, sometimes an OTC cocktail of doxalymine succinate, dextromethorphan, acetaminophen, psuedoephedrine, etc. Lazy OTC meds that don’t do much but don’t require much effort to obtain.

God is blowing the wind outside to send another storm. Baby is causing the monitor to come on with his shrieks of sleep resistance.

The dog lays in a state of being more depressed than I am. What role can I play, she asks, if I am no longer the baby?

The whiskey was tempting tonight, but it probably would have rocked the marriage boat too hard, given my last displays of temper when I drank it to excess.

There is no cure for me, because guys like me are supposed to be perpetually happy and grateful for being white, middle-class and at least average in looks and brains.

Just like all of the insurance companies who wouldn’t issue me insurance because I wasn’t the right person to receive it–God and man won’t issue me relief because relief is for refugees and poor, marginalized people who can’t even type on a cheap laptop about their problems tonight.

I say a prayer for them, and guys and gals vying to be President. We are all wicked and doomed for eternal damnation without grace. We won’t know how much of the grace pie we got sliced up for us until we die.

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