I drank too much last night. Should have known better knowing what I know. Now the sensation that I don't fit anywhere in the world is more like a fist than an echo of someone's bad dream. I tell myself that the fist isn't reality, that it's imaginary. That my brain is wired to run negative loops over and over until I'm rescued from it by a crisis, humor, love or distraction. If only I could take that part of my brain out that malfunctions. I'm deeply afraid though that it wouldn't help because the operation would leave me comatose.
This isn't a pity party. This is a party where I'm dangled over The Pit and forced to look into the abyss only to realize that it's me down there, and I'm nothing.
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