The Man Who Didn’t Really Drink

It’s too late to start thinking, but too early to just throw it all out before bed. But he didn’t think so, so instead he grabbed a few beers and sat on his La-Z-Boy until he would finally pass out while drooling over his blanket. Sometimes it was too depressing to even try to get up from the recliner and fetch a beer, just to sit back and guzzle it only to have it shot right back up through his throat onto his blanket filled with empty memories. He took all of his unfinished sentences to dark places, and made so many people uncomfortable with his stories that he made a point to always locate a hiding spot as soon as he entered a room to retreat to once that event took place.

As it always would.

But sometimes writing didn’t come to him as freely as he’d like, and he would finally get up and sit in a creaky old wooden chair he picked up off the street and grab a pencil and some paper from the trash and scribble some stick figures. He would transcribe the stick figures into a written landscape. Maybe the one with the straw line hair would break up with the rounded figure because of his circular shape. It was asinine, but it was literature. Is there an in between?

But no characters he created really represented who he was, but who his exterior wished to become in order to reflect his inner, cruel soul. But tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll finish his own story. Tomorrow, at least, is a new day. His mind will definitely have more to offer.

And now it’s morning. And, to think, he spent all of his time thinking about how little he and his characters had left.


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