choking on your own spit

it's cold today in the asylum. exploded pipes and rats frozen in the walls, these freezing temperatures have brought a new sort of rot to new orleans. suddenly, I look outside and even the jungle has shriveled back into a sort of deceased fetal position. so much for yardwork. the sun is odd as it brings no warmth, just a distant sense of abandonment and desolation, but I have discovered minesweeper on my computer and so I am content. it is new and improved, high-technology applied to simplicity which is how us computer savvy individuals like it ... streamlined and dumb-downed.

to be honest with all of you, I have been forgetting my words; how to spell them, words to misspell in the first place; lost in the fog is all I can think of to explain it. it's not particularly any fun and as much as I would love to blame it on the time of year, the headcold, the job, the stress, I can't fool myself into believing that mindless copout any longer. I am just too damn old to call it anything but laziness. and so this is my first step in the right direction, or any direction for that matter.

I have recently become a bartender. seems it might be a grave mistake to put me in a position of such great power so near the Source, but truth be told, when you are close enough the well, all you really want to do is drink tea. the temptation is almost too easy to satisfy and as my braincode has been repeatedly fried and reset, I turn by instinct into a stance of quiet rejection against the obvious move towards consumption. if this makes sense, I have no idea. if you know I'm lying, then congratulations. that being said, I must say with some small of amount of pride, that I do display what may be a natural penchant for the job, a talent fostered by years of personal abuse and witless fuckabouts, my newly discovered skill set is certainly not wasted on my customers ... hicks and blacks and assholes with too much money and not much mind, but it's a job and good practice.

just yesterday a man stumbled into the bar, fumbled with the door, the seat, his brain, a string of drool escaping with relative ease from the corner of his mouth, he wanted food and drink. the mahi mahi, he said, grilled with dirty rice and vodka, grey goose straight and on the rocks, he said half mumbled, as he dropped his head to the cold black marble countertop. begrudgulance, it's not a word, but it is a silent feeling one receives right before you know you are about to be fucked, but instead of turning the man around straightaway, you order his food and cocktail as if he was just another customer, another forgotten casualty of the holidays, his body bag a disgusting wool christmas sweater, dark navy blue with white snowflakes stiched all the same. shame it certainly was, but all the while, knowing it was early and that my day was to be doubled up, I was almost tempted to ask him for whatever it was he was holding. unfortunately, we never got that far. half-way through his drink he got up to leave and then did exactly that. I sent our beheameth of a busboy after him, caught him, brought him back to life and mild coherence, his action not one directed by malice or forthought, but rigormortis of the brain, I remained sympathetic, forced him to eat, though most of his food ended up on the bar, and then sent him back out into the land of the walking dead. he apologized profusely and tipped me twenty dollars.

happy mother fucking new year