complacency

My attitude is the same color of my hair, which is starting to be the same shade as my skin.  And all is one when it comes down to it: my life is as grey as my outlook as my style as my goals (ha. goals.). Why get all worked up about anything? Life happens much the same as breathing.  Breathe in. Breathe out. Moments pass from number to number and I can't help it.  Can't stop it.  Can't fight it.  Breathe in. Breathe out.

I would like a gin and tonic with a lime, please. Easy on the tonic.

Gin and tonic is a drink of sophistication. I have to order top shelf.  There has to be something nice in my life.  Top shelf drinks with busted clothing.  Somehow the expensive mixes with the insanely cheap and we get the middle ground. The so-called grey area.

So my wife left me. Not that she is that great anyways.  But apparently her life is better without waking up next to me.  Without seeing me on a daily basis. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.  But you see, my life is better too without having to see her.  It is pretty clear to me that she isn't worth fighting for.  Selfish. Callous. B***h.  Imagining someone giving her the old "in-out" though almost brings me to tears.  Starts to get me all worked up.  But why. Exhale.  It's gonna happen whether or not I get upset.

I like to resort to the "what-ifs."  It's a nice place to spend time because nothing is definite.  What if I hadn't moved to Colorado? What if I had taken that job? The best part is that since it didn't really happen, nothing is in black and white. By marrying my other girlfriend, I can decide exactly how our life would have been. What kind of house we lived in.  What kind of kids we would have had. There is so much more freedom in the what-ifs than in real life. 

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Back to my reality.  I live in a house with my three adult daughters and my ex-wife's three dogs.  My middle daughter is married and her husband (who as I understand things, has fucked all my girls) and she live there with their two sons.  The first son isn't my daughter's, just a b*****d from her husband (he has a couple that he doesn't seem to support).  We are one f*****g happy family. (Don't you get that from me?)

Bar-keep, pour me another double please.

The eldest daughter did graduate college. Congrats to her. Too bad she spent all my money getting a useless degree. That, surprise, she isn't using.  She just ups and leaves, avoiding work at all costs.  And lets not start on appearances (we give the term 'white trash' new color). Breathe in. Take a drink. Breathe out.  My middle daughter has married her abusive, philandering husband and they have recently conceived.  I am so f*****g overjoyed.  Can't you tell? Did I mention food stamps?  An addiction to shopping (read: stealing)? Why do laundry when she can buy (cough) something new? Within that madhouse, where I cannot make my mortgage payments (God forbid my inept children pay rent once in a while), there are piles upon piles of stuff.  In bags. With tags.  She doesn't even know what she has.  What she knows is one thing: she needs more.

In.

Out.

In.

And last and least.  My third daughter.  She has disappointed me from the get-go (all I ever asked for was a son. funny how that works).  Addicted to eating and stealing.  She would be a real beaut if she could put down the Chipotle.  The french fries.  The milk shake. Can't tell her a damned thing (fatherly advice left this family a while ago) and it's not worth the effort anyways.  She fights with her sister's husband (who by the way, has taken to sitting at the head of my table and holding the remote control- not worth the fight) and makes everyone's life a living hell.  And all she does is eats.  Not much for me to do anymore.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I could get started on finances, but that is worthy of a shot.  Or two.  Bar-keep, round of shots please.  Don't really want to start on money. Let me just paint you the picture- it's bad. It's like a rainy day without any hope for sun.  Ashen clouds on a drab day. Week. Month. Life.

My ex thinks that I should set goals for myself. Try to be happy once in a while. I blow s**t up her a*s because I can.  I tell her I am moving to Arizona. Tomorrow it's North Dakota.  Keep her guessing. Nothing definite.  But goals are for the kumbaya-singing, tree-hugging happy idiots who don't realize that life keeps rolling.  You can do your little dance and kiss and giggle.  But life isn't a happy place.  It just keeps hitting you.

What is that old Mellencamp song? Something about life just goes on, even after the thrill of living is gone?

Another round, good sir.