F**K Human Resources

How do I tell her? How do I explain in a text message that I am inexplicably caught constantly tabulating the incalculable burden of obligation? How do I confess that every single sleepless night my mind unintentionally fills and chokes full with formulaic frustrations, all neatly tallied and categorized into tidy little lists? Every day dawns stubbornly stillborn here in this place no longer fertile with the initial promises of illusive stability.  Life instead gets bogged down and impregnated with a cacophony of humdrum dial tone stagnation. The compulsion to try doing the “right” thing- measured by someone’s unlisted definitions, anyway.  Paying that bill.  And the next one.  And the one after that.  The unceasing drive to do a good job, even though very few people …

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Texting Tag

I have always been overly sensitive about receiving overnight texts, those snippets of conversation hitting my phone randomly in the emptiness of another sleepless night spent straddling the solitary decay in a fading City of Wayne. There was once a time when those texts were almost always transatlantic in nature.  And they almost always contained some form of bad news- another friend buried.  Or arrested.  Or overdosed.  And even when the content of the texts bouncing across an ocean contained happier tidings, there was still an invisible, underlying melancholy attached that taught me caution and stiff-lipped reserve when caught unlocking my phone after midnight. Now, though, here in the tempestuous midst of a pandemic still raging hard… and the western forests burning uncontained… and the progressive …

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Dream Girl

I cannot help but to wonder where she might be tonight. And I find myself caught hard in the tantalizingly elusive possibility of her very tentative existence. The underlying solitude of a disjointed former lover’s isolation gives birth to that unstable potential for a dream. The empty incompleteness leaves me questioning the fleetingly unique set of circumstances required to even begin finding her. The silence resounding unabated inside a shallow and echoing blue house causes me to ponder the curvatures of the flowing currents of happenstance, wondering which twirl of the unrelenting flood will ultimately land me safely on her safe shores of lasting acceptance. If she were here with me now, in this particular early evening hour, I would dance with her.  Unashamedly.  Our bodies …

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Only Quitters Quit

DISCLAIMER:  I am fine.  No need to text, call, or post.  Just another dark night of the soul spent inside my head within the confines of this City of Wayne.  And I’m getting the demons out in the most transparent manner available to me.  Because fuck secrets.  But if you, or someone you know, is currently struggling, there is no shame in reaching out to the N.S.P.L: 1-800-273-8255. There are seldom healthy choices left to make when drowning unsupervised in the exhausted collapse of another bottle’s last splash. There are usually just invasive regrets that linger in the shadows, as the day inevitably surrenders itself over to the dark, an opaquely familiar and dependable foe so persistently insistent in its tick-tock regularity. The steadily irregular rhythm …

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Under the Streetlight’s Glow

I never really wanted this. For the entirety of my fragmented youth, I never once imagined that I would ever make it to the upper middle of middle age, where the bones creak and groan every morning and every hangover become a mini-death sentence, because hey,  I’m not nineteen anymore and that green bottle poison gets just a little more deadly with every passing glass.  Not that it ever stops me.  It just causes me to hem and haw and momentarily pause whenever a new inebriated opportunity presents itself, leaving me to mentally flounder and waffle until the inner urge to recapture my younger stupidity catches hold and I suddenly find myself randomly drunk in someone’s garage at 1:43 in the morning, playing Bluetooth song tag …

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