I Chose the Wrong Week to be Sober
I love to drink. Who doesn’t? No, not that drink. I mean mind-altering, mind-numbing and mind-faltering substances that make it so much easier to digest the shit that gets stuck in your throat — every time you attempt to clear it with a nice, cool glass of water.
Well, I was very much in favor of bottles of water in the morning during my work out sessions and during the day when I chose not to battle the onset of constipation. But, outside that mandatory regimen was the sweet caress of bottled gems that helped to stimulate my senses from the calloused rut — that never failed to take hold whenever I pondered why my life was my own.
I wasn’t depressed. I was and still am trying to make my existence valid. In other words — I torture myself with images of what I hoped I would be doing or not doing as the case may be.
Throwing darts to will a few of them to stick. They do — but then get bored and slide down or simply and magically lose their place — and with each plummet is all the reasons why being acutely aware of slow progress, stormy relationships, and body weakness — deserves a toast.
After a couple of months of purposed imprisonment that included pouring my stewed confection directly into the basin of my newly acquired Macbook Air, slicing my thumb open as I carelessly closed a bottle with my eyes wide open, and sending damning emails to two recruiters in reverse — I valiantly decided that the almighty universe had done a splendid job of shaming me out of oblivion.
The miracle isn’t that I managed to survive the woeful mistakes that should’ve wrecked my capacity for forgiveness indefinitely — it’s simply that I got quite tired of drifting in and out of sub-consciousness.
It’s a shitty place to be but, I stayed because there was really nowhere to belong. Not being able to define yourself with authority is a great excuse for liquid delights in public spaces.
You’re a writer but so is your Uber driver and that ten-year-old blogger. You are not old, but you are not young enough not to feel old as fuck. Your Twitter feed constantly serves you helpings of why you may have been better off battling the streets of Lagos as opposed to the fury of White cops and gun-toting zombies on the loose. You boast about not regretting your single status but your weary body aches for kisses and hugs that don’t demand a service fee. You hide behind a masked laziness and terrible dishonesty that soaks up the medicine that soothes your symptoms into a glazed topping.
It’s gummy and sweet. Too much of yourself, wrapped in flashy things draws a lot of attention. Yet, nobody is interested. Nobody notices that you are a walking candy cane.
That’s because you are dead. Dead to the world. Dead to the racial mayhem that you read about and people you don’t know force you to read about. Because they know you read and write about it. Dead to the political corruption that has given rise and power to White people. Dead to the dire messages of what it truly means to be a Black woman in White and Black America. Dead to the industry of your dreams that continues to bum you out with the evidence of a massive takeover that happened when you were dreaming.
There are no more dreams. Just debates, debacles and the need to detoxify.
Damn it. My timing couldn’t be more disastrous. I pretend that I could care less about the election. I think I care more than I would like to admit. I listen to the garbage on TV and I watch the nonsense spewing from the mouths of so-called experts. The tempo of bullshit is increasing at a rapid rate and of course the debates will do nothing to restore law and order.
Despite the invitations that will be laden with buckets of temptation — ranging from my expertise and beyond — I will be completely and pathetically sober.
I will not give in to the chaos around me or in the over-sized machine that will hold my interest as I stare in earnest each time I scream my reluctance to swish a glass of white wine with practiced precision. I suspect that I will win this test for the future. I have the remarkable ability to put my demons to shame — without the dramatics of an episode of Game of Thrones.
The debates and its aftermath is just a slice of what this week represents. There is a slew of mandates that could make or break my stride. I really should’ve chosen another week to be brave and daring. In fact, I am already experiencing a sensation that comes in waves and releases a strong scent of familiarity.
I think its called feelings. And I dig it.