I eat too many potato chips. And I smoke too many cigarettes. I am on Netflix all the time, and spill whatever dinner I fix in my bed.
Then, I wash the duvet cover again, and, taking it off, button by button, I find the yellow stitching of a woman I once loved. Long ago, far away.
I watch too many bad movies, and I make too many comments about things I don’t really care about online, just too feel I’m alive, or that I exist.
Afterwards, I shave my face to keep up a public exterior (whatever ‘public’ means anymore). I moisturize heavily to hide decades of wrinkles and mistakes.
I walk inside my cupboard and pull out a brand new box of saltines. I crunch through a column of these in no more than ten minutes. I feel better than Doritos.
Looking skyward at the night sky, I know I go to the barnyard too often. I see the stars spilled like chicken feed there, and go to sleep after a few blinks.
Neighbors wave. My paunch is hidden. My calves look strong. Up the steep hill and down the rolling ones (reverse of course on the way back). I am an admirable looking middle-aged man, who runs four miles at least thrice a week.
Frozen pizza, Friendly’s ice cream (on sale), and American Spirit tobacco keep me going through the wee hours of early dawn when I wake up as restless as a donkey tied to a well, kicked in the face.
My dryer is broke, my tires are bald, unraked colored autumn leaves will flatten out and kill half the grass they’re lying on. I tired easily.
I eat junk, smoke too much, and I’ve been pulling on the bottle again, just to stop myself from this damn’d business of thinking all the time, my friend.