Decisionals

There I was in court for the second time in as many months. This time it wasn’t me, thank god. The last time I stood in court was for a near fist fight I had with an overzealous cop named Bambi who thought it was right and good to give me a ticket for not having a light on my bicycle. I was doing my civic duty and cycling to the bar instead of wielding a deadly vehicular weapon. I told her so. She was unimpressed. After engaging in a little semantic dance, she called another car and had mock conversations with the other troopers (one mustachioed like a villain in a western flick) before releasing me with the ticket, hand on pistol. I shot the western fellow a challenging glance and walked my bike home like a listless hobo. As usual my belligerence accomplished nothing but I fought the ticket anyway and the judge saw it my way. Go figure. The current engagement was for a friend. She needed it and I felt obliged. She walked away with a reprimand and a fine after a second DUI offense, unheard of. I have good luck with the courts if not enforcement. That night we got good and drunk to celebrate. I drove.

When I got home I felt a crushing depression for missing _ _ _ _. It slowly ate away at my heart and mind until I caved and sent a message. No response. It had been four days since I contacted her last and that wasn’t exactly a pleasant encounter. Poor girl had to be hurting and so was I so I caved further and sent a few more texts. No response. Typical. Then I got desperate and sent a whole bunch of messages and called about five times and emailed and finally called her family for news (there was a small chance she had overdosed or some other bullshit). She was fine. I felt like a prick and she got what she needed – to know that her absence caused me a bunch of hurt. After a few days it was clear she wasn’t going to call. I was as good as dead, again. On the practical end, she still had my shit though and something had to be done about that. Loyalty with lovers is fucked up. Amazing we survive it at all.

Later that night at the bar I met a girl. I told her I liked her so we made out near the toilets. It was one of those strange nights where many women showed interest. I must have showed the hurt. I felt vulnerable and I was. Chics dig that. They also like assholes, especially ones that’ll go down on them the first date. I planned on doing that with this beauty except the drinks added up to the spins and I puked out the car window on the way to her place. Once there we smoked a bowl which made the situation critical so I had her drive me home and puked in the bushes in front of the building through the harsh light of her Honda headlamps before heading in. I told her it was a sign. The next six hours I slept slung over the public toilet working up food from two days prior; rock star style. I would’ve puked up my asshole if it wasn’t attached. There was nothing fun about it. I even thought of calling an ambulance then recalled the acute depression episode and decided death would be preferable. It took a full 48 hours to be back to 85% capacity. It felt like a premonition, like God was saying “you will die alone in disgrace. And your lesson will be, accept it, for I am lord.” The lord speaks to me through disgrace; a voice of disreason clouded by the knowledge that it was planted there by my ancestry before choice and before free will. Now he taunts me with unreasonable clarity and love for my enemy at the most dire of moments when hatred would serve me far better. Those who the Lord loves most, he tortures. He plants a perfect bitter seed of truth deeper than flesh. I pitied Saint Sebastian. Heaven is a vat of shit for martyrs and common men, a florid dish of perfect disease. I struggled not to call my wife for how much I understood, how much I loved her. I saw my reflection in the puke; it bent up through the white porcelain which made me dizzy and racked my dirty mind with pain. I felt sorry for God and the job he had with this filthy lot. Then I sat it out as in a truce, my body in pain, grateful it wasn’t my mind. A diseased body is far easier than a diseased mind.

I called the girl three days later to apologize. Apparently it wasn’t so offensive because she came over immediately and fucked me. I was terrible, racked with pain and guilt over my _ _ _ _. Very little of it made sense. I told her how I felt before I put it in, told her I didn’t want to, showed her it was limp and unimpressive. Yet somehow from the gloom it rose, I put it in, worked her and fell sound asleep. The lord stayed silent and I knew I’d leave her too, maybe soon, maybe in a year. It was too soon to tell and I far too stupid to stop it.