I am a man of simple principles. More of a love and hug than a rub and tug type of guy, but when I met her in the early spring of 2008 I was intent on not getting serious. I told myself that she could keep me warm as I slept in the back of Benny's old Ford Explorer. The most expensive thing I owned was the sleeping bag I passed out in, it cost me more than the conveyance that doubled as my homestead, and canoodling closely in my cocoon of sleep with a little extra lithe filling could help me keep the windows fogged. With our exhalations sticking close to the glass and providing privacy for our predilections we could plan when to plant our feet on the frosty ground and face the day. As you can see, the best baked breads of broken men often end up Rye, and I got Carawayed sewing my seeds for the future on land left fallow for a reason.

Oh!

How deeply do I fall for complacency and revel in a rudderless existence, passionately kissing the macadam with the force of an 8th grade make out. Clicking teeth, gnashing molars pushing my body to besotted extremes. Eleven years later we were still together. We took breaks for the first few winters, and you can read here about how I took the cure down south, only to hook back up with her in the Spring. Eventually we were together full time year round, and I began to hate her with a vehemence that seethed over like milk from a forgotten double boiler. Spraying forth an angry froth solely because I settled, I could be angry at no one but myself and instead of dealing I devolved. Crippled with addiction I battled daily to plant the same brand of boots from 11 years earlier, and eventually she made the decision for me.

No one likes to be dumped. You don't dump me, I dump you. I was supposed to the end this on my terms. Where did she get the gall to do what I should of done at the end of that first Summer. How on earth did she get the balls to do what I said I wanted and knew I needed but never would have done. I find no recompense in rifling through the piles of clothes that do nothing but remorsefully remind me of how much I really loved her the first few years, before the rank reek of stagnancy clung to our relationship like a seasick hand on a stanchion.

During the nascency of our demise, I was afforded the luxury of going away to attain a sobriety that had been missing for over 20 years. About 50 days into having a clear head I came back for a date to see if we could work things out. I asked the world to let things go as they should, and after hanging around longer than the breakup actually took I limped outside to catch my breath. I'm so angry at her for dumping me, but so relieved to be single again. The tickling trepidation of being on the market again so close to 40 has invigorated my soul. It's time to decide if I should rebound with another rub and tug, or hold out for love and a hug.

In a recent discussion with a friend and after mentioning that very few living creatures are able to live at either pole, I took stock in my temperate surroundings. Modestly middle class and enjoying a comfortable existence I queried of us both of why neither of us could rest in a comfortable median when it came to being healthy. Rationalizing my destructive behavior has been my forte for most of my creative life. Oh how wonderful to be a misanthropic artistic force, my twisted machinations of the written word being my proudest accomplishments. The world must see how miserably productive I can be.

Yeah. So?

So what to do when the engine starts knocking like the tail end of the best bender you believe that you've ever enjoyed. Alliterative prose filled with the best metaphor you've ever created, comparatively placed on an alter next to the best fix you've ever copped. Being a man of a pretenious comportment I may tell you the written word has been my mistress since puberty had me chasing similes for a quick dry hand release. With the deft cunning of a predator in its natural habitat, I osmotically acquired the ability to astound myself with loquacious verbosity. Smugly proud of vacuously empty sentences stuffed like a club sandwich with big words being the condiments. I love to giggle at the fact that people never say, "I had just had the best ham on rye, the mustard was so good!"

No one ever wants to answer the door and see themselves. They long to see a desperate friend they can give advice to. Imagine opening the door to see yourself and having to take your own advice? I can think of very few things more disgusting than that. Gross. I only like to fix other people and then surreptitiously slink back to the bottom of my own destructive proclivities and settle smugly like sediment. So you can take my advice, use it, and prosper or don't. I don't care I'm fuckin perfect.

Assholes.

My engine is hewn from a single block of the purest iron, forged pistons that unfailingly gallop toward an unreachable redline. An incomparable workhorse of perpetual internal combustion. My engine will never knock, ping, or lose timing. Impeccable design and forethought created this design whose blueprints have no equal.

Downside?

The fuel is prohibitively expensive and although varied, increasingly difficult to find. Knowing that, one can see the crux of the issue.

If an engine isn't running it's almost impossible to know whether or not it's destroyed completely or just out of gas.

I have a feeling nowadays that I'm perched upon the crest of my usefulness. A ruined soul with aching bones strung with frayed sinew. In a world with an attention span that grows ever shorter I feel as relevant as a ten year old meme. Self marginalized and more than slightly out of fashion I find myself fumbling clumsily to buckle up before the crash and flash of white hot heat. Never grounded but somehow tethered to a timeline that has me playing second fiddle, out of tune and touch, my schtick hackneyed and overplayed, the gap between me and the rest is unbridgeable.

I believe you can trust implicitly if you believe that you deserve to be hurt. Covering all your bases so when fate comes sliding in with her spikes up you can either jump or apply the tag. Defensive by nature but nurtured to be reactionary I live a life of enjoyable destruction. In a world where most habitual behavior is becoming passé, my staunch advocacy of living life in altered state has done nothing but entrench me forever deeper as the relic I am. If left to my own devices would already have been. Nothing but the past, a byline in a stock obituary. My goal nowadays is to keep my heart beating for those few who believe this septic bloodline should continue. If I'm blessed with children, I hope to place a matriarch atop my sullied crest and give her space to grow the name. Should I ever be matrilinerally traced back and lauded as the foundation the credit will be given to my wife for being the one who cobbled these genes into something worthwhile.
The lineage so far is tattooed with the ink of serious missteps and unforgivable slights.

Living on the east side of anywhere provides you with ammo automatically. Your limbs and torso are varnished taut with the ability to ignore your surroundings. If your eyes wander and connect with a happenstance that doesn't concern you, stray your gaze to the nearest object and study it like you care. Dismiss or engage.

The latter we won't climb, the missing rings prove tricky to those who lack a predisposition for conflict. Personally I enjoy it, but it's one of the negative things I'm working to eradicate. The eradication of my predispositions is proving to be my main job lately. Childless and middle aged, my bathroom mirror glares at me with my old mans reflection. The limey fuck, ginger headed, and mad angry gritted his teeth when shit was gonna go down. Missing him as I do, I'm thankful our process taught me to protect my kidneys and liver and that a shiner was makeup for men. After all these years I have become solidly certain that an Usher can live without a heart, and lately I've been asking myself if I have been.

Static in mild inebriation. Standing base level with a glow they know now we pass on. It's like being perched atop a cupola without regard for the gale blowing NW at fifty. Stiff gusts broadcast your infelicities as you save yourself from the big fall, content you climb down and amble placated from the rush of adrenaline. The quick come down always bears grizzly consequences leaving nothing but questions and sets you forward querying whether or not a competent tumble to death would have settled things fairly for the cosmos.

Steady on my feet and thankful my infernal machine ran out of fuel, I know the plummet wouldn't have been celebrated. Those who love me find me from time to time with my head above the waves. Treading water with the unwavering confidence in the shift of tide buoyantly bobbing me back to shore, i always bet my life on the ocean. I sat down at the table of life with a 2 and 3 off suited and now find myself all in on the bluff. I've raised the stakes every round and the table read me before I stacked my chips. The world knows I'm lying and when they finally call me on it, I hope to leave the table dejectedly affable. Busted with a crooked grin.

This slut I've called Winter just recently flashed her gash for the first time in months, beckoning her devotees to proffer their personal habits in her honor. Kids copp and use in places where we used to party. Beach parking lots stocked with beaters full of twists and nodds, fighting odds to stay breathing. They again bequeathing and bowing to this frigid whore. Won't be long till my truck door is frozen shut as I drop my coffee cup, sputter and swear at this weather here. The nice months fell behind the headboard, and it will be slight while until I look under my bed. Dustmites and deadbolted derision, clenched jawed and white knuckled until I finally fuck this up completely. Sometimes it seems that utter destruction is woven into my khakis.