I get a few hours away from the grind. I drink. I blog.
I'm listing to "Church of the Holy Spook" cranked to 11 and feeling like shit.
I have to cap the bottle soon. That is depressing as all hell.
I'm not a good man. I'm not holy. I've never once even tried to walk in Jesus' footprints.
But I've never done anything evil. Not truly evil. Careless? Reckless, even? Thoughtless? Sure! Yes. I've been bad. Many times I've acted without regard for the health of my soul (whatever that is) and I'm still constantly fucking up everything... just, everything.
I'm not good.
But. Godamnit. I'm not bad either.
I've never once deliberately gone out and harmed anybody or anything. Oh sure, I've notched plenty of sins of omission and fits of passionate rage in my belt. Still, I've never made a decision - or at least I cannot remember (drunk as I am) ever made a conscious effort to fuck anybody. I've never acted with hostility or malice.
Nor, I must say, have I ever done anything to help anybody that would cause me undue discomfort.
I'm middle of the road right down the line.
Except, of course, MW.
I've given my life to MW. Everything to her. Hoping against hope that it would pay off in the end.
It hasn't. It won't. It's just getting worse. And it will not, can not, get better.
I'm exhausted. I've sacrificed damned near everything I have except the blood from my veins. And every day I get to look into the abyss and see that it is still hungry.
Demanding to be fed.
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