Fear and Loathing in My Living Room

I suppose the title is a bit of false advertising really. I am not high on mescalin, nor in the grips of an acid trip. No, I merely chose to self medicate a less than acceptable life with a common, though effective, drug. We shall call him the Captain. And as I'm sitting here, feeling the glorious sensation that my fingers are no longer attached to my body and that my head resides someplace approximately two feet above my shoulders, I remember myself as a child. I asked my mother, once, upon seeing a drunken man stumble from a bar into the gutter and stay there, presumably indefinitely, why people would do that to themselves. And now I suppose I know. I wish I could take my younger self by the hand and explain things. Explain myself. I wish I could tell her that sometimes my, her, life would be less than we had expected it to be. I wish I could tell her that, though I like to think that I have not lost the idealism of my youth, I have also accepted a healthy dose of realism and that those two concepts don't always see eye to eye. I wish I could tell her that sometimes, just sometimes, the world is too dark a place to face without help. And, most of all, I wish I could tell her that, even in the grips of a lover so completely capable of separating me from reality...even then...I still know that when the bottle is empty, the problems will return. I do know that, and still I chase the bottom of that bottle with a fierce desire. Because while I do know that one truth, I also know this: The bottom may be my inevitable landing place, but the free fall to it is oh so sweet.

Totems

Chris's pockets are never empty. Perhaps it is a trait only men share. I remember reading Outlander and how Jamie had a seemingly random assortment of things which he kept in his sporran at all times, and how Claire found it endearing. I suppose I feel the same way, now that I've come to experience it. Chris frequently travels about with a vast assortment of things including, but not limited to, one or more sonic screwdrivers, a small notebook, various pens, tiny action figures, transformers, chess pieces, multi-sided die, smooth stones, strange little sculptures, various tools, whatever book he happens to be reading, pocket watches, pocket knives, zippo lighters (usually without fuel), and small, plastic gems. Upon arriving at our hotel in Aiken, he emptied his pockets onto the dresser top, and suddenly the room felt just like home. It was littered with his tiny little reminders, the smallest pieces of his life. Individually, they meant nothing of importance. But, together, they spoke volumes about the kind of man he is. I wonder, sometimes, if he carries them to remind himself who he is.