Happy Birthday Hobobob

I am ready for the SHOUT OUT. My brother arrives at my home and we leave for Otto's together. I have already been drinking, and by the time I get to Otto's I am pretty hammered. My brother buys me a beer and Cyndi Lauper pours me a stiff Jack Daniels on the house. I am loved. I start the show and goof off, having fun. Too much fun. I am in the Brown World, chatty, excited, happy.

Most of the SHOUT OUT is a blur. I hit on all the women, drink with all the men. I hit on one of the female poets, playing with her hair and chasing her around the bar. I also hit on Cyndi Lauper. I'm drunk, so they don't seem to mind. Soon, it's time to leave. I stagger out and clown around in the streets and on the subways. I am everywhere. OBSIDIAN comes home with me. I put in a four night pass for him. He'll be with me for a few days. I am happy I think. I am melancholy on some days. Feeling good on others. Time passes funny like.

My brother and I spend our days online, working on stuff for the SHOUT OUT, doing things, reading things. I stretch out on my bed for hours, watching Hulu.com, not caring about much. My birthday is just days away. On Sunday, OBSIDIAN scrambles up some cash and goes out to buy another quart of vodka. We chill, drink and talk. Funny, my depression rises from my shoulders when I drink. Like when I take a hit of WELLBUTRIN or LAMICTAL. Thus proving that much of my problems are no doubt chemical and can be defeated.

Although I have reason to be depressed. Jobless, loveless, homeless, what more can you take from a man and make him stay in good spirits. Unless we drink. That's an instant spirit raiser. But we are tapping out of money, quickly, and soon, the liquor spigot will dry up. We realize this and are greatly saddened. Neither of us wants to dry out now. Not now...not so close to my birthday. Shit.

My brother sleeps on the floor, snoring all night. I watch television until late. I sleep like the dead and maybe I am exhausted from doing nothing, or just the effects of depression on the brain. I wake up with a face covered with my own saliva. I'm drooling again in my sleep. I haven't done that shit since I was on LUVOX. What's that about?

Then next day we scrape up change and find that we have only enough money for a pint of Vodka. We are descending, being forced to dry out. I am pissed. So is OBSIDIAN. But we work. We are creative. We are doing things under the influence. We are productive. My mind is busy. I can write and read where when I don't drink I can't function much. I have a lack of creativity. The days slip past, moving slowly.

Big K pops up on the screen, and she is telling me about her day. I encourage her to come over with a quart of vodka and hang out with us. She can't make it tonight, but she can make it on my birthday! Wow! How great is that?! Life is so fucking good sometimes. OBSIDIAN and I go to sleep with visions of alcoholic sugar plums dancing in our heads. I drift in and out of sleep. Messages are already popping up on my email where people are wishing me a Happy Birthday. Wow! So many people. I blink out, disappearing from the world and skirting the Brown World. Barely high. Not drunk.

In the morning I arise first and turn on my computer, watching Hulu as usual and being a slouch. I don't really want to get up. The day is cold, dreary and rainy. Perfect day for a birthday! OBSIDIAN rises and gets ready, rolling up his bed, putting on his shoes, stretching. I recline on my bed, watching his morning ritual. I, for my part, do nothing. I am content to be a lazy slob today. I call my therapist but can't reach him. I go downstairs to see the therapist in the building. She is gone. I call my mother and talk to her and my father. They make me feel good...better in fact. I am sober. Very sober. So is OBSIDIAN.

We stay online. Working. Working Working.

And waiting patiently for Big K.

Hobobob