There’s a fantasy I have of taking a car to Atlantic Avenue, slipping into one of the open-air bars they have, and ordering a bone dry Grey Goose martini with a twist.
Somedays I change the fantasy a little. Somedays, it’s a vodka tonic. Other days, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, still others– a large pour of Pinot Noir.
I wonder what it would be like to get feel the warmth of the drink as it escalates and blooms behind my ears and settles into my stomach. The way the butterfly wings of intoxication would turn the heavy boulder of my thoughts into gossamer and make everything fast and slow for a little while.
It’s been gray all day, threatening rain, and I’m broke again. The job search is disheartening and I’m losing hope. I’m burnt out from the same cycle repeating itself over and over again. I want to settle into the sofa and watch a movie from the 80s. I want to dull myself, but I fear I’m already dulled.
If it wants to rain, I hope it just does. I closed my eyes for a bit today and when I woke up, half the day was gone.
Nightingale 
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