*
Lunch with my father's gotten more than tipsy. Two big goblets of white wine to accompany some pasta and he's making jokes about how I don't ever drink in the day. This from him, and yelling about my alcoholism from my mother. Always, always at odds.
Manhattan's bright today, the past week a fog of clouds and rain. My home is a cave in weather like that, I can sleep til four PM and wake up thinking it's seven in the morning. I don't mind, but at the same time...the time just keeps disappearing.
October already and I've no job and barely any money. If I was paying my own rent, I'd be out on the street already. Thankfully my dad's committed to giving me what he never had - he was kicked out of his house at 18 and put himself through college. He never wanted me to have that struggle. I just hope he knows how unbelievably appreciative I am, no matter how much I scramble and scrap to be independent, no matter how much of a fight I put up to not take his money.
Cigarettes have been downgraded to rolling tobacco; beer is what's a dollar a bottle or 5.50 for a six pack. If it's wine, it's a ten dollar bottle three times the size of a stylish, society-grade one. And generally tastes like sour grapes. Weed is hard to come by, Shae and I can barely split twenty bags. But neither of us will give any of it up.
I feel lush. It's 3:22 pm, I've had two glasses of wine and am halfway through a pint of Heineken. I can't help myself: you start me at 1:30 after I've been reading Bukowski all day, and I'm bound to want more. My mother's warnings and reprimands seem all too real when I grip that can.
Art is alive and I'm making it and I'm happy. My class on tattoos is going well beyond my wildest dreams. My thesis is looming. My cousin's skateboard company has drafted me to making decks for them. Fridays now mean going to my dad's office and making artwork for his company.
I'm broke but I'm drunk and I'm happy. My job prospects are bleak (as far as steady work goes) and I feel a little like a pretty Chinaski. I splurged on a pack of smokes and feel blissfully luxurious. Who knew a filter in my mouth would bring about that?
Lunch with my father's gotten more than tipsy. Two big goblets of white wine to accompany some pasta and he's making jokes about how I don't ever drink in the day. This from him, and yelling about my alcoholism from my mother. Always, always at odds.
Manhattan's bright today, the past week a fog of clouds and rain. My home is a cave in weather like that, I can sleep til four PM and wake up thinking it's seven in the morning. I don't mind, but at the same time...the time just keeps disappearing.
October already and I've no job and barely any money. If I was paying my own rent, I'd be out on the street already. Thankfully my dad's committed to giving me what he never had - he was kicked out of his house at 18 and put himself through college. He never wanted me to have that struggle. I just hope he knows how unbelievably appreciative I am, no matter how much I scramble and scrap to be independent, no matter how much of a fight I put up to not take his money.
Cigarettes have been downgraded to rolling tobacco; beer is what's a dollar a bottle or 5.50 for a six pack. If it's wine, it's a ten dollar bottle three times the size of a stylish, society-grade one. And generally tastes like sour grapes. Weed is hard to come by, Shae and I can barely split twenty bags. But neither of us will give any of it up.
I feel lush. It's 3:22 pm, I've had two glasses of wine and am halfway through a pint of Heineken. I can't help myself: you start me at 1:30 after I've been reading Bukowski all day, and I'm bound to want more. My mother's warnings and reprimands seem all too real when I grip that can.
Art is alive and I'm making it and I'm happy. My class on tattoos is going well beyond my wildest dreams. My thesis is looming. My cousin's skateboard company has drafted me to making decks for them. Fridays now mean going to my dad's office and making artwork for his company.
I'm broke but I'm drunk and I'm happy. My job prospects are bleak (as far as steady work goes) and I feel a little like a pretty Chinaski. I splurged on a pack of smokes and feel blissfully luxurious. Who knew a filter in my mouth would bring about that?
