Well shit. It’s Friday night and I’m sitting here with a glass of Redemption Rye, which I know isn’t all that fancy but I love it and that’s all that matters, goddamit. It’s a comfort whiskey for me. I wrote about it once before.
So it’s been awhile since I wrote anything. I have not been feeling up to snuff, as my grandpappy used to say. You remember I had a date with a nice lady friend. I mentioned it in the last piece I wrote. And she is a wonderful woman. Smart and quirky and funny. The trifecta. I have no defense against a woman like that.
But it didn’t work. I don’t know why. You ask out a nice woman. You hope for the best. You think maybe it’s time and you’re finally over HER. You’d like to think it’s not too late for a chance at love again. You roll the dice and see what happens. What happened was it didn’t happen, and that’s the name of that goddam tune.
Who knows why. I clean up okay. I polished up my best glass eye, the Paul Newman blue one. Combed my hair and kept my language presentable. It wasn’t any of that. It just wasn’t going to be a thing. I’ve been alone a long time. I’m used to it. It got me down for a bit, but no longer. I’m back and starting to feel like my old pissy self again.
And there’s the knock at the door I was waiting for. The Preacher’s comin’ by for a visit, and I’m pretty damn sure he’s got a bottle of Laphroaig with him, which is what we drink on nights like this.
Short piece. Meant to get me off my ass and writing again. I’ll talk to you later.