Another night with another drink, with thoughts running all about

Mark Kozelek’s “Metropol 47” plays quietly on the radio. Over and over. A tall glass of Bushmills sits on my night stand. I chase it with Coca-Cola. Been quite some time since I had a drink. Midnight. I am alone.

Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.

My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.

Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.

Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.

The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.

No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.

I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.

I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”

Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.