Fizzled

So here sit I. I drink bourbon from a small jelly-jar. I drink gin from a larger jelly-jar, and water from a stainless steel canteen... if at all.
Unsolicited inspirations pinball in my skull like the free radicals between my cells. The ideas erode my confidence as the free-radicals chip away at my life-span; my own psyche promoting the anxiety that eats me, the alcohol I consume consuming me and my time.

Crap.

Winter term began for my wife last week. It will involve long hours at the hospital, with equal time spent in literary buffeting. The day before was a stressful undertaking, with weeks worth of catching up to do. Naturally, Tegan spent the afternoon organizing her sock drawer. "Study is much more difficult in an atmosphere cluttered." She said something along those lines. There is only admiration in these words, truly. How she copes with the pressures of nursing school and the annoyances of my presence, I am in awe of.

I decided to relieve her of the burden that is myself, retreating to the store to retrieve... things. The companions of alcohol (club soda, lemon juice) and the companions of evacuation (magazines, hygienic tissue.) I stood before a vast wall of white cylinders, stacked in plasti-wrapped battalions, occasionally stooping and squeezing, following instructions to procure gentler wipe than was available at our usual grocery haunt.
People came and went. I felt a bizarre camaraderie with another man who lingered for several minutes, perusing the american barge of toilet paper. Ahhh,,, the metaphors.

But my small jelly-jar is empty, and my larger jar unfilled. And my water canteen... well, nonexistent.

Mohalo