All I Wanted ...

I'm angry at myself for the things that've been going through my mind tonight. But they're there. As much as I want them to go away, they seem to have a life of their own.

I was thinking that some weekend I'd like to rent a hotel room, pick up a bottle of rum, and drink myself into oblivion. That wonderful, unfeeling stupor from which you can sleep like the dead. Maybe just go into a room, shut door behind me, and wrestle these demons for my soul. See who emerges the next morning. I guess the thing that worries me is that I ever start drinking like that, I might never stop. And it bothers me that some part of that appeals to me.

I've been thinking about suicide again. No, not that I would ever do it. I couldn't do that to Mama. But the idea of release isn't something I can shake off. I don't think I could ever bring myself to surrender like that. But I would so love to just close my eyes.

I've been thinking about medication, too. Maybe I should join the Prozac nation. Or whatever it is they give people these days to make them numb. Actually, I'm already numb. Maybe I need Viagra. Or a nice, fat joint. Or a bottle of rum.

I've been going around and around like that all day. Maybe I need to talk to somebody. Of course, I'm going to New Jersey. Who wouldn't be depressed?

When Stonewall Jackson was dying he said “Let us cross the the river and rest in the shade of the trees.” I guess that's all I really want.

“All I wanted was a life to call my own.
All I wanted was a place to call my home.
All I wanted was some meat upon the bone.”