Fear My Sarcasm
It's one in the morning, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a tall glass of club soda. Do non-alcoholics drink club soda? I can't see why you would, if not to punish yourself. I could have a Coke. A cup of coffee. Snapple. But when they force the chemicals out of your system, they teach you to fear ingesting anything that feels good. Club soda tastes like ass. When we drink it, we're self-flagellating and self-congratulating.
Yes, I know firsthand what ass tastes like. Yes, I'm going to leave the story behind that to your imagination. No, club soda isn't quite an accurate comparison.
I can't sleep, and I'm so tired that the kitchen tiles are undulating. My head hurts, and I'm terrified of ibuprofen. I'm thirsty, and I've got a glass full of club soda.
At least I've never killed anyone. Not that I remember, anyway. I've never done ten shots and orphaned a little boy before lunchtime. I've never dropped a baby out a window because it wouldn't stop crying. I've never stabbed a guy in heroic defense and stood shivering in the night air.
I attribute this to cowardice and lack of skill. Sometimes I think I want to save lives because I'm too afraid to end them. It's not just that I'm not strong; it's that everything forceful I have is wrapped up in a flavorless protective coating. My only weapon is sarcasm, and I hone it and sharpen it until there's nothing left but a hilt.
When I got home tonight, Donna said I looked unusually sad. Like I've got an everyday, baseline level of sad, but today is unusual. I'd like my baseline mien to be cheerful, or mysterious. Sad seems too easy. Hello, I'm Kyle, and I'm a drug addict, and it was all because I'm sad, sad on the inside, and the narcotics dulled the pain, but look! I'm drinking a club soda, so you know I'm all better now.
I wish that Lily would hurry up and move to New York, so she can stop looking at me every day like she knows what my cock looks like. It's bad enough that she does. It's bad enough that I've been taking the stairs for the past week because the elevator now smells like fucking. You wanted a better metaphor for what ass tastes like? It tastes like the air in that elevator feels on my skin.
And this? This is a glass of club soda splashing into the sink. I'm going to make a pot of strong coffee and stay up all night. I'm not going to process my feelings or own my own pain. There is no way in hell I'm going to a meeting tomorrow. And hear you me, there will be no more club soda. The stuff tastes like ass.