white pants

There is a hurricane working its way up the Atlantic Ocean. We know it is coming. People are buying groceries, bottled water, batteries. People are getting ready for it, for an unknown. It could very well be a blip that passes by quickly. It could be otherwise.

Hungover all day, I did little but look at Facebook, jerk off, and watch episodes of The Walking Dead.  The show and the impending hurricane overlap each other, both inspiring thoughts about the the end of the world, about what matters, about those close to you, about who, if anyone, at this point in my life, post-breakup, I consider close. In the last hurricane that threatened the city, I thought constantly of Jacob who was in another part of the city, stuck in Manhattan. The few remaining living people on the show care so much about their still living loved ones, that that is really all that drives them through a hell of a world overrun by zombies.

This storm, I am alone. I won't have anyone to worry about in that particular way I did last time. I will have no one to hug with a bit more meaning, having had a storm and its threatened destruction making me again realize the short and unpredictable nature of our lives here on this planet.

We get dressed up and we dance. We spin and spin until the dance is over.

Last night, I dressed up as a zombie sailor and drank a lot of vodka and a lot of rum. I thought of boys. I looked at boys. I danced to songs I don't remember. I sent a dumb text message. I headed toward home and stopped at Dunkin Donuts at four in the morning, a habit I am beginning to form now after drinking. Some guys, gay guys, stopped me out front to chat with me. They told me I looked cute. I told them I was headed into Dunkin Donuts and walked away. I could hear them discussing whether they should have invited me over to have a drink. I went inside. I ordered a donut and a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich.

I was a sailor on shore leave, careening around a port city, drunk, horny, unattached.