Do work, son.

Reads: 94  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is another piece that I wrote about a year ago.

Submitted: January 26, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 26, 2012

A A A

A A A


I wake up, my head is thumping and hurting something fierce. It’s reminding me of how fucked up I got last night with whoever is sleeping in my bed today. Just some local nobody that I picked up at the bar in my disparity to get laid. I shrug and know I’m a local nobody too. I should probably stop this, but I won’t.

I fall out of bed and make a decent amount of noise. I curse loudly and drag my knees over the cheap carpet. My partner rolls over in the bed, grumbling. I crawl around aimlessly for a bit before finally getting to my feet when I get to the bathroom. The floor is cold and hard. I’ve woken up still a little drunk and very much hungover. I want to vomit, but I don’t.

I stare in the mirror to find a pair of hauntingly sad and exhausted eyes staring back at me. I am twenty-four years old. I scratch the scruffy beard that’s beginning to grow on my face. I silently stand in the bathroom in my wife beater and boxers. I look like I’ve been run over by something. I splash water on my face. I want to wake up my partner, but he’s snoring now, so I don’t.

It’s quiet here. Someone honks their horn below the apartment complex. I hear my ragged breath rattle in my ribcage from the cigars and whatever else I managed to get my hands on last night. In the mornings, my body detests this poor treatment, but I’m not stopping anytime soon.

Tonight, I have another piano gig at a seedy bar downtown. I will the next night too… and the next. I live paycheck to paycheck. I’m always right on the edge, but I get by. I wonder who I can bring home tonight.

My voice is low and scratchy. “Who the fuck am I?” I already know the answer. It’s long and stupid.

I want to move on. I want to grow up. I want to live.

I want to be real.

I can’t.

I’ve become a slave; I’ve become estranged from the former image of myself.


© Copyright 2017 DrCulture. All rights reserved.