Have you ever been wrestled into submission?

I mean like really, really wrestled. To the point that your entire being writhes in pain and your veins pump nuclear waste they burn so bad.

And no matter what you do, you can't get out from under it.

It's one thing to have this happen physically. Drunk or no. But, physiologically. Body and mind. And I never realized it until just now.

Just now standing in front of the coffee shop window on 27th. Just seeing her stroll up to that table the way she does. Tom peeing on a wall around the corner, she just starts in with this guy I've never seen. And just deja vu washes over me.

And I've lost. I've lost myself.

Since the day Bethany Lowe read Tequila Tree--a short story started by Philip Harrison, the once aspiring me--I've done nothing but drink, take these stupid walks, and fuck her. I never finished a final draft of that piece. I never even so much as changed a word. I turned it in the way it was, got an F on it and ended up with a C- in the class.

And I've not written a single word since. This, I realize, makes me angry.

I pull back my fist and thrust it forward fast. Right through the fucking window.

And the glass is broke. And my hand is bleeding.

And everyone is just staring.

And she stands up.  ¶ 8:12 AM 0 comments