split decision

the day started pleasant enough. i woke up in the early afternoon and the house was silent and empty. the sun was pouring onto the wooden floors. the glare, though sharp, was warm and bearable. i put on a sweater and some sunglasses, and in my pajamas went to the store and bought a half gallon of milk and a jug of apple juice.

i watched a movie and was pleased with the end. then i watched a sitcom but forget how it ended. maybe ill watch it again. then i took a nap. when i woke she was home. we hugged for a while. the first time in days.

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i went and watched the big fight at a friends house. there were about 10 of us men, huddled in a living room drinking beers and hollering at the television all at once. use your left! wheres the hook? see? hes scared! look at him, hes confused, he doesnt know what to do, hes about to piss his fucking pants! your insane, his jaw is a rock! youre a fool, his jaw is glass! watch, you'll see. yeah you will. everyone was drunk. some of us like fools. i chimed in when i could. cursing a ref or groaning at the timing of what could have been the perfect combination, but i kept most of my thoughts to myself and just watched them. the guys. watched them live this small moment and wondered where we all were in life. wondered what dreams we had screamed and what series of slow dull failures we could reflect upon. i wondered and the liquor grew quick and warm in my stomach. then mayweather won in a split decision and we all cleaned up and cleared out. the house was very neat when we left. as if we were never there.

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everyone is exhausted, including me. at the bar we hustle with weary eyes. smiles wide and shoulders slumped. i break a glass and ignore it, the sound crashes loud and clear and there is a small gasp that is lost in the vacuum of music and conversation. the fans whirring overhead. i pause and throw back a shot of whiskey. there is a small scuffle between two regulars at the end of the bar. both of them are drunk but one is more afraid of the other. there is cold hush, and then the regular that was less afraid leaves the bar. there is a hint of strut in his walk. no one mentions it when he leaves, they just go back to their drinks and talk about the Mets game.

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i hate what this blog has become. but when i think about it, maybe i just hate that im the kind of person who would contribute to a blog i wouldnt read. the kind of blog i would find too shy and personal. boring and meaningless. not even worth hating, but hated anyway. then: maybe this blog is just the faucet from which the hate pours from. maybe its me that i hate. maybe im hating myself for being a person that hates himself. man, thats a shitload of hate. whole lotta hate in this blog. i fucking hate that.