Saturday. This last week has been lived in an ambulatory fog, a fog that moves as I move: here, there, home, office; just enough energy to get to work, return, watch some subtitled television and go to sleep; thoughts of “what's this about” bubbling in the back of my head. I'm feeling better now, but better in the sense I feel better than I did. Better than I did is not necessarily good. I feel grumpy and I'd get into the whiskey again, but I've drunk all of the whiskey and have nothing left in the house but whine.
You got the whine right.
I actually wrote a bunch of stuff and then erased it. Nothing too horrible, but it required re-thinking and straightening up: a rewrite in other words. My mind is not up for rewrite. My mind is in a fog. Or did I mention that? Not good to be in a fog when you're coming up on the start of your eighth year of writing a journal. Maybe seven years is enough. Enough for a job, for a marriage, for a life, if you happen to be a bird or a squirrel. I don't believe I've turned into a bird or a squirrel, as I'd have noticed in the mornings when I'm shaving, but I couldn't say from the state of my head. It's like living in twenty-four seven hangover time. Not a bad hangover, but a hangover, none the less. Foggy top, foggy bottom, foggy in between. Foggy in the morning, foggy in the night, fogging sitting here writing “foggy” so fogging many times.
You really coming up on seven friggin’ years?