Smirnoff

I realized the other night that benzene is not what I am looking for in a cigarette.

It's been two days since I've had a drink. Well, two days and little under an hour, seeing as I'm sitting here, nice and relaxed, a glass of Smirnoff and cranberry juice in my hand. It's my third of the evening - amazing how happy disconnectedness can make a man. It's like pulling the plug is really just a metaphor for plugging in somewhere else, like a sound mixer moving around the plugs on his board. If we can just connect this preamp to this effect, we'll be good to go, you know?

Had a wonderful day with Jessie. I awoke with her next to me, playing with my nipples with the dildo I bought her for Christmas. Oh, sure, at the time it was a thoughtless gift, but we've come to adore its many purposes, its utility. She is so cute in the morning. It's like that scene in "The Graduate" when Dustin Hoffman wakes up in the middle of the night and kisses his girl - how intimate is that? You have morning mouth, morning breath, the crust of hours on your lips, and yet you connect, pulse with each other, even before your brain has had a chance to turn on and remind you of all its biases. That's what it is like to wake up next to Jessie: Christmas morning, each time with a new gift to unwrap in the midst of haze and excitement.

We bought a new engagement ring today. Zales has proved to be an incredible disappointment with their sales and service, so we returned that motherfucker and went to Helzberg, where we had a delightful customer experience. They have this little room in the center of the store, with glass tiles and bright halogen overhead lamps. That's where they take the folks who are obviously serious about picking up some serious stone, and we sat there and looked at different rings under a microscope, under the halogen. We learned about clarity, about cut, the 4 C's that diamond resellers have perfected in order to get you to spend as much money as possible and feel good about it.

We found a mind-blowing ring. It made the one I picked out look like old socks. The center stone burns so brightly its hard to look directly at it, much like Jessie; she's a Leo, and she burns like the Dark Phoenix at the end of X-Men III, and I am her Wolverine, the only person who heals fast enough to approach her scalding brilliance, her flaming affection. The only thing I'm missing is the claws.

Did you like my last post? I know Dave did, which was sweet. Sometimes I wonder what the nature of my posts should be on this blog, whether I should err on the side of caution or swing the proximate truth in the warm wind and care not who should happen to smell it. Definitely I felt the need to tell the truth, the whole truth, about Houston, seeing as one could talk about me nowadays in terms of B.H. (Before Houston) and A.H. (After Houston). Strange how a large landmass could have such an effect on one's self-perception, or how one body, one body of water could wash away so much soul-sediment. Do you like when I speak in metaphors? They feel sophisticated, typing them. I wonder how they sound.

Anyways, I'm doing okay. It's been two days since my last drink, not counting the past hour or so. Or did I already say that? Structures confound me, sober or drunk. It's hard to know anymore with permanence that which I believe I am or am not.

Yours always,
m