Descent Into Alcoholism

Hey, my title is almost an acronym for dead on arrival.

Have I matured over the years? I’m embarrassed to admit that I have, enough where my health relies on the people I’m around. I’ve reread my journal from the last year, and there’s a paucity of entries. I remember when Brandon first introduced me to this online journal, and how I introduced my friends to it, and…it became some kind of monster. Over the years, Brandon and I have been the most faithful to it, while both posting less than the past. I got a laugh out of the entries from the last year. I’ve blended wit and angst to create a glorious satire of my existence. The race to end bachelorhood has been the central theme, and I’ve taken pitstops at religion, power, success, and art. Of course, there is another topic I’m familiar with: loss.

Pippa and I, as of last night, are done. I’m not too thrilled about that, considering where my feelings lie. It wasn’t my choice. I’m not certain where things went wrong, but it could be when honesty started to take a toll. If that’s the case, I’m going to opine that hooking up with a random girl while on vacation is not nearly as bad as getting drunk and having a threesome. Hell, I didn’t even do what I was thought to have done. If you want to call a spade a spade, let’s be real with ourselves here. The whole mistakes, pointing fingers…I don’t understand why I had to be wrong all the time. Happier days, we talked, didn’t talk about us, but we talked. Now, anytime I come close to having an opinion, I’m bad. She did say that it was over “for reals”, which made me giggle because that shows the age and maturity gap between us. For reals. I didn’t want things to end. I would have given the girl the world to show her how I felt, what she meant to me. I still would give her the world, if she’d let me. The friendship process is weird, knowing that we went full tilt somewhere where I didn’t know was possible. If we were friends, I probably wouldn’t’ve found happiness until now, which means that I wouldn’t be writing this entry and I’d still have the girl of my dreams. What I am left with is a learning experience, a weak dream that one day we’ll both come around, and pictures that probably shouldn’t be released to the public. I may be an asshole, but…eh, not that big of an asshole without reason. Whatever happens, I love you Pippa. You’ll still have a special place in my mind as the first girl to make me feel like impossible was nothing.

I have eight weeks left in Long Beach, and I’m afraid of where it will go. I can’t see the future, but I can tell you the order of events as constructed will suck. Administrative duties have kicked my ass since I came back, and the schedule ahead will not afford me time to engage in a jam session until my birthday. Speaking of which, that’s a date I’m not looking forward to; outside of Iron Man 2, I’m not sure there’s much for me to celebrate. I feel like I’ve accumulated a substantial amount of wealth, but nothing to really show for it. There’s a tingling sensation that should scream “you’ve arrived” whenever I get low. Yes, I’m low right now, and I’m not hearing that sensation ring through my eardrums. Hot Tub Time Machine gave me the idea that going back to the past and changing one moment (or six) could help, but I can’t find a hot tub time machine. This is, of course, having an adverse effect on my health. Just last night, I couldn’t sleep, and my favorite pastrami was barely touched. As far as medication, I have a bottle of tequila that’s a reminder of a vacation cut short. I would have given anything to stay in Arizona so I wouldn’t return to a barren wasteland. I’d rather be a bum in Phoenix than a lord in Long Beach. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Jason Derulo “Whatcha Say”


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