This twist off of the beer cap comes too easy.
The sad feelings come too easy.
The melodrama flows out of me like blood from a head wound.
I try like hell to beat it down. I try like hell to master myself. I want so much to be in control, yet those damn feelings and thoughts have a mind of their own. I can try all I want, but I don't end up making sense of anything.
I want, yet I can't even figure out for myself what I want.
I don't know if I'm even trying anymore or if I'm just right back where I've alway been, rolling with the punches, trying for nothing more than to get drunk enough to get to sleep quick enough to avoid crying into my pillow.
Beer doesn't really seem to be working, but it's the constant, the thing I can rely on. It's the thing I think I know my way about when so much else seems to bring nothing but a curious mix of heartache and curiosity and regret. It's my friend, the friend that's there when no one else is.
I'd like to think there's something more, but . . .