I wrote about making ends meet versus making ends meat. Now I am grasping at straws?
Or is it grasping for straws. I picture a man drunk at a bar. I am not that man, for now he is hypothetical. I have been that man, but digressions in my state of mind are like land mines in Sarajevo; fuckin everywhere and liable to blow off the arm of a kindergartener picking daisies for her foster mom.
Wars a bitch, and it seems I digressed and you stepped on one. Grasping for straws. The man at the bar, sits placated and besotted. He notices a pubic hair on the rim of his highball glass. Its not a high class establishment, but the fact he knows its short and curly; places one across his ass. He's been on that stool through four and half reruns of Sportscenter and god knows how many games of Keno. God does know, hes sure, because he prays to him to hit the 3x multiplier, on six numbers outta a twelve point game.
Keno is more than a digression, it is in its all encompassing drunk gambling glory a literal land mine. Arms and legs blown akimbo, mine land on the carriage return.
He stinks but he doesn't want to make one. He mastered the drunken path to the head, pretending that chairs jumped in the middle of his left step stumble that no one seems to notice. He has in the past, even gone on to pretend to straighten a picture that was set on all four corners in the first place, just to keep the left step stumble in the minds of anybody that may be casting the next season of Dancing with the Winos, also known as Drinking with the Downtrodden, Downcast, and self abusing.
That one shattered your femur, and blew your patella through your quadriceps, now if you can manage to crawl to the edge of what used to be this semantic playground without hitting anymore you may be able to pretend that you care enough to keep reading what I am prattling on about.
His bar napkin, was picked apart as soon as the glass sweat enough to make it damp like his forehead. He doesn't want to pick the pube from the rim. It seemed happy to live life on the edge, even if the edge was a minuscule promontory above the lackluster effervescence of his well whiskey and Sierra Mist. Fuck that it didn't seem happy and neither was he, he was just to lazy to try and scared it may fall and ruin his BEVRIDGE.
The bartender was no where to be seen, probably out back huffin a quick butt, since it'd been like 8 years since you could smoke one inside anywhere in the godforsaken Commonwealth. He figured he could do it himself, it was just a reach that he'd stretched a million times before. He just had to angle the stool on its first two legs, stretch, snatch, rock back in retreat and polish off the rest. But as your protagonist prodded, the divine antagonists plotted and promised themselves that no fuck that drunk would ever be allowed to balance as long as they were on watch.
On the second rock forward, he knew he that maybe in trouble. The floor sticky with schwill of the rest of his kind, proved a tricky surface; and although quick to notice he was relatively slow to react and on the recoil of the third rock the stool flew out backward, toward the pool table. His propensity to overact a mishap made the proceedings look that much more foolish. He managed to grab a handful of straws, only after knocking over the fruit caddy and the Keno tickets into the ice well. Chin forward he smacked the bar rail, biting his lip more in aggression than embarrassment and due only to the force with which he was trying so hard to make the incident look to be more an accident than the daily repast that is was coming to be, he started to bleed.
Down for the count on the floor he spilled more pints of blood, bitter, blow, and account balances upon. He figured that he'd usurped the position that his father held; Dad's proclivities proved disastrous for his progeny. Covered in whiskey, he realized that he fell grasping for straws, and with a giggle prayed to the let the embarrassment subside and while he was at it hoped for his numbers to hit in the last of his three plays.
