Monday night. IPA. Preseason football. A red neon Bevo is reflected in the high gloss of the bar top. I hate Texas. But I've no real plans to leave. I have too much here to walk away from. That is, I couldn't bear to move away from my son.
I'm sitting here because I've no patience for anything else, and yeah, because I'm indulging in feeling kicked-in. I'm really good at this, just ask my ex-wife. She'd tell you, but she'd surely frame it as something bad. But it's not so bad, really.
Really!
The Internet says that Mother Theresa said, "If you judge others, you have no time to love them." I don't need your judgment, but I'll gladly accept your love. So don't judge me (yet). Soft you now! My darling IPA arrives!
Right now, I'm getting soaked. Hops hopping on my tongue, a fire in my belly, which feels swollen despite my 30 hard minutes on the elliptical earlier, and a nice halo blurred around the edges of the neons--even fucking Bevo is softened. The damn meaningless game is already almost at half time.
It's times like this that I think I should start dating. Maybe a stripper would want to date me? I'd be that totally out of the box guy for a stripper. Nah, that's the beer talking. Fuck dating.
I guess I should tell the truth: I'm sitting here drinking because I made a date with a nice lady for tonight, but she canceled. She had a good reason though: cancer.
Maybe I should just go? I love my boy dearly, but wow! Do I really have to stay here? I should just move to France because in France I would fall in love. I'm sure of it. Of course, she would never love me, so what's the point? And my boy does love me and need me. I can't forget that, ever.
So maybe I should try to get another date with a Texas woman? Hey, pretty lady with giant hair, wanna rastle some dranks with me tonight? No? Well, damn.
