12:30am and I have precious little time to write before all cognisance is stolen from me by those consecutive shots of tequila.
It’s a brutal set of paces I’m putting my fingers through, they plead and moan and beg and the spellcheck is in spades and things are difficult to type. Stupid tendons fight every push and pull of keyboard. Furious fibers pretend they are going to obey, yet betray none the less. It’s like the Gods are trying to tell me something: Don’t write tonight; don’t.
To say that my intake was over-met tonight is an understatement. Mark me, internet, I don’t revel in these excesses; I truly don’t. I promise. I have some amount of regret, it’s true. But what’s hard is that, with each incremental keystroke, with each purposed muscle movement, I’m falling off the cliff. If you, dear friends, could comprehend the effort taken to jot down these few phrases, you’d lavish praise upon me. For I, tendons and acuity and muscle-memory protesting with ever fiber, have triumphed and written. I, like so many other pathfinders before me, have overcome the stupor from within which I elucidate… and flipped my handicap to virtue.
What? You have no idea of which I write? I am not surprised. Were ye with me this eve? Were ye Pat? Were ye Brian? Were ye Lang? Were ye Aquiles? Nay; ye were not. Then don’t come to me, step to me, and profess your allegiance and foreknowledge. This cabal is tight; is locked; loaded.
Can you even understand that I ventured to write? I somehow think this odd; why would I? Sharaun, when I informed her so, mocked me slightly. “Why would you try to write? You’re obviously in no shape to string together words.” Not in those words, no… but close enough.
Home. Both kids and the wife have fevers. I must attend. This will not be good. Water; it is required for said tasks.
But, y’all, because I care. Now… I must go address the abhorrent spinning of everything. Goodnight.