There’s never anything on the TV on a Sunday afternoon. Well, never anything decent. Weird vampire steampunk flick? Check. Black Snake Moan? Check.

What even is Black Snake Moan? He switches to another channel.


It’s not as if he’s all that focused on the TV, anyway. It’s more of a background filler–physical noise to drown out the mental train of thoughts that occupy his head. At least, in theory. In actuality, his mind is a veritable courtroom drama, full of opposing arguments and screaming.


He casts a cusory glance to the low end table next to him. Two bottles of wine sit there. One is a malbec–hurrah for Argintinean cultural significance–and the other is a chilled bottle of prosecco. He stares at the beads of condensation forming on the bottle of prosecco, his eyes trailing one lone drop as it streams down the bottle of wine and splashes onto the table.

To drink or not to drink–that is the question. Is it nobler in the mind to, by one’s self, suffer those wretched slings and arrows of outrageous fortune? Or shall he take arms and oppose them to thus end it?

He snorts. No more Shakespeare for one day.


The polished wine glass stares back at him. It took him exactly sixteen minutes to get it just right. He stares at it too, impassively. His face is as blank as a chalkboard slate, but his mind screams. It would be so easy to drink it all, to celebrate–even if there’s no reason to celebrate–and sink into the blissful semi-oblivion that is drunkeness. And why not?

Why not, indeed?

He clenches his fist and unclenches: one-two, one-two. Better than the mind-numbing drudgery that is Sunday TV. Better the dull edges of inebriation than the endless ennui. Better to not remember the mess that is his life.

Except that’s not true, because the sweating bottle will not make him forget–it will only cloud and distort. He knows this, and for some twisted reason, he almost welcomes it. The feelings of utter despair will rush in, hard and fast, that inundating sense of complete worthlessness, that all-consuming self-hatred. He is weak, he is worthless, he is a failure.

He laughs, mirthlessly. Look at that–he doesn’t even need the bottles to feel like a loser. How clever.


But–and there is always a but. Maybe it is nothing more than wanting to feel something beesides the inane dullness of the flickering box in front of him. Maybe it is the feeling of wanting to feel something besides the feeling of wanting to feel. That last thought makes him pause for a few seconds.

And maybe that’s not what he needs right now.

The bottles can wait, can they not? They can wait because a quick, possibly self-destructive fix is not the answer. They can wait because he doesn’t have to rush the feelings of worthlesness, because sooner or later he’ll be there, and that’s okay, because he’s human, and that’s a normal human thing to feel.

It’s okay, because it will all pass.

It’s okay, because he is more than that.

He’s more than that.

But for now. . .



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