February 12th, Year Three

A boy named Michael came into the bar and kissed me. Not many women enter the bar, and I have become a drunk man’s only choice, which satisfies them because it has to. That leaves me vulnerable to their aggressive advances.

Michael has been to the bar many times, and gets more irritating with each visit. He is always leaving off to ‘take care of business,’ which confuses, but not intrigues me. Soon after Michael left, a stripper named Randy asked me to have sex with him. I almost admired his direct approach, but not enough to consider spending a worthless night with him. Or with Jose, who wanted me to believe he is twenty-four. Someone should tell him ten years pass by quickly, and calendars are a good investment for those that do not have a head for counting.

I am sick of men. Matt and his pierced genitals. Michael and his lack of good conversation, which precedes his vanishing act. Randy and his vulgar tongue. Jose and his fleeting youth. Perhaps, it is just that I continue to take my medication irregularly. This has brought on a depression that is difficult to see past.

I can hardly tolerate the smell of alcohol, but I consume it in gallons to drown out my panic attacks. This isn’t an intelligent act. Give decisions enough thought, and you will turn away from them. Jump into matters head first, I say.

I wrote a letter to Jeannine, only to point out her selfish behavior, as if beating a dead horse served a purpose. All blood has coagulated, and the spirit has risen out of the corpse. The only thing left for us to do, is to formally end our friendship, but we won’t.

February 12th, Year Three

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