2015.12.19

The music is so loud it hurts.

This is what I do when MW is out of the house. I can't stand to be alone, in silence. Also, I'm kind of drunk. That helps too. It is a necessity.

Tommy Conwell. Half a heart. For the record.

Okay, so we'll try this. MW will be back in less than 30 minutes so I have to make this quick and I can't get bogged down with the pride of correct spelling, grammar, decency, relevancy or intelligence.

I'm drunk. The song just changed to Jimmy Page's The Only One. With Robert Plant helping out.

Why am I even here?

Two night ago, I took in a snoot-full. It was an ill-advised drunk. I knew I shouldn't do it. Here's what happened; normally I cut a big tumbler in half: gin or vodka and seltzer. I sip that all evening while being a dutiful care taker to an HD victim who has no fucking clue. None. Does not even realize. Totally oblivious. Oh, her quiver is full or arrows: "this seems wrong, that seems wrong, is something wrong? why am I like this, why did this happen that way? am I sick? am I okay?" Everything is, according to me, fine. Absolutely fine. You are fine. The situation is normal. Please, sit. Watch TV. I'll cook, clean. Everything is fine.

I am a fleshing, boozy shield against the reality of HD.

Two night ago I took in too many arrows and sprung a leak.

It started in the morning when MW called me at work. She tripped over her own feet while walking at the mall and wanted to know if that was a symptom of "HT" as she calls it. What? No. Of course not. I trip over my feet all the time. Hell, you've seen me trip over my feet. I'm one clumsy mofo. You're fine. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

John Lee Hooker now. I Want To Hug You.

I started drinking while at work. I've a bottle of cheap rotgut which I cut into a cup of coffee. You don't fucking judge me; what would you do? You're wife has been calling all morning, worried she has Huntington's Disease and you LIE TO HER. You LIE. ALL THE TIME. You don't know what else to do. And you drink. Whenever, whatever you can. Because.... just because.

Anyway, when I finally made it home that night, it was already pretty late. Fortunately, the tripping incident had, by that time, been pretty much forgotten. Of course, that just meant moving on to other worries. Was she getting a cold? Would she be able to sleep? What about Donald Trump? He's going to be president, you know.

Oh God. I filled my trusty tumbler 3/4th full of Gin that night.

John Hiatt. Everybody Went Low.

MW was on a tear that evening. Along with the usual worries, she was scheduled to be at work the next day. She hadn't been to work in two weeks. She was nearly panicked from the prospect of being around people again.

She bustled around the house; cleaning, fussing. It took forever to get her settled down enough to sit in bed and turn on the TV. I hadn't even had a chance to drink much, so I had to really make up for lost time. I guzzled the tumbler toot sweet. I had to. It was time to brush my teeth and rinse. I rely on the rinse to mask the booze, so I had to.

Anyway, when I settled in with MW, she kept on talking about stuff and, God help me, I replied. But.... heh... I was slurring.

MW noticed. She became convinced I was stroking out.

Beat Farmers. California Kid.

Have you ever tried to sober up, like, NOW? It ain't easy. I'm biting my cheek, biting my tongue. Trying so hard to speak around the mush in my mouth.

Anyway, pile this upon the pile of lies. I was eventually able to convince MW that I was just congested.

Okay. Have to go now and get ready. MW will be home soon. Have to start cooking and cleaning. One more song before I go. Georgia Satellites, Bring Down The Hammer.