Filthy

Things that are filthy: Congressional ethics panels, the floor at a strip club, my bike. Seriously, this is nasty. On the way home today, I was pursued by such a racket that I couldn't decide whether to pedal harder so it'd be over sooner, or to attempt to quietly coast the entire way home (as it's predominately uphill, I didn't have much choice in the matter). I passed some guy on a sparkling white Colnago who, as my screeching drivetrain neared, slowed drastically. I could pretend that I was just much faster, crushing a monster gear on my commute home, but the pained look on his face told me otherwise. It said "holy shit, have you got Rosie Perez caught in your chain? Hurry up down the road and away from me so I can continue to enjoy my Italian-themed ride in peace." And I don't blame him, 'cause I felt the same way. Except, you know, for the Italian part.

Tomorrow: it puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again. Actually, it's getting the hose anyway.

Dogs, sleeping. And me.

When I was drunk, I sometimes forgot about the things worth fighting for. The further I descended into my dark, alcoholic mental wasteland, the more I lost sight of anything tangible and good. It happened slowly, over the course of many long, shitty months, so I didn't notice. Like boiling a frog, by the time I realized anything was wrong, it was way too late: I was screwed (I've never boiled a frog, not really my kind of snack, but they just swim around all happy-like until they're cooked. Weird, right?).

In a crap mental space to begin with, I started to see everything, EVERYTHING as should'a been, can't have, no point, lost cause, don't deserve to be happy anyway, etc. I woke up one day and realized--drunk or sober--I was depressed practically out of my mind. I had been destroying my life like a narcissistic time bomb from Super Mario Bros. blindly running around and wrecking everything good with almost surprising success. Chasing and detonating madly until all I had left was myself for company and in that state, I was no fun to be around. Seriously, when you really, really hate who you are, who you've become, usually you're the only one left around to hang out with. I was so sad-sick and confused that I couldn't see what was happening, had no idea that I was an alcoholic, and certainly had no idea that I was an asshole. It's sort of funny, I always thought that it was easy to tell if you're an asshole, because assholes are so easy to pick out of a crowd. I have a knack for it, actually. But, especially under cover of alcoholic denial, I was the last to know. My fucked up brain kept me pretty much in the dark about it, which is a little slice of crazy that I never want to see again. With a startling, white clarity of purpose, I knew that everything hurt too much to go on, that drinking made it hurt less and that it never really hurt less, in the end. What I didn't know was how to stop. And no, it really never, ever occurred to me to try and quit drinking. Like I said: crazy.

So when I see my two dogs asleep on the couch (yea, I let 'em sleep on the couch) and the whole fucking world just makes sense, that's when I know I'm doing OK.