Over the Hill

You’re behind. Always behind. Always out of time or energy or breath. Always procrastinating. Was  there even a time when you were ahead? When the world was at your feet? Maybe… you kind of remember the broad strokes. Laughing, falling, fucking, Vegas, the girl with pink hair and a pierced nose at the bar who picked you up. But the details are all a blur. One long day. And now that you think about it, you never actually accomplished any of those things you said you wanted to. The important things. The ones that would leave a legacy after your death. Jesus Christ. 40 down. 40 more to go. And that’s if you’re lucky. Lucky?

And that’s when the panic attack hits and the heart starts to pump and suddenly you’re lying there not moving on your back and you know that there’s never going to be another completely comfortable pain-free moment ever again. This state is death itself. It is insanity. And when you bring the phone to your face to check the time, you see that it’s 3 AM and you haven’t even slept but you haven’t really been awake either. Has it always been this hot in the house? It never felt this hot…

So you try to get up the old way to take that piss. But things are different now. The straight line path you used to take to go from A to B is no longer an option. So you roll left, then right, then left-right again, slowly building the momentum until you flip yourself like a sweaty blueberry pancake onto your hard fat stomach and slowly slither off that frying pan of a bed. You barely make it to the pisser and as you take down your drawers it takes a few minutes to realize that the piss won’t come. Or rather a little bit of it comes every 30 seconds. Then it stops. And burns deep down. Then starts and stops again. And as you stand there, feeling full and empty at the same time, not knowing if you’re done or not, you remember thinking to yourself about the time when you were a teenager, pissing next to this old guy in the urinals at the Steak n Shake on Olive Road, thinking “man why does this old fart keep stopping his piss like that?” And then trying to do it and feeling pain and letting go and the relief of having a normal piss without having to stop it… And now you’re here and you know why. And that old man’s long since left this world. And soon enough it’ll be the same for you.

But you don’t want to think about that now. You don’t want to think about anything new anymore at all. Just the old. Just the way it used to be. The good times when you could piss with the best of them. Because at least the past is not physically painful even though there’s plenty of regret. And you shuffle back to the bed and crawl in and try to remember the time you and the boys put on that sketch comedy routine for those cute little sorority blondes in their short little plaid skirts and how the pink of Jessie’s panties were showing cuz she was sitting on the bed with one of her legs tucked underneath her ass like only the young can do. And how Sarah kept staring at you, all that lust coming out her eyes as you plucked that Fender. Like she’d never want anyone else the way she wanted you. The way your wife doesn’t stare at you.

You don’t want to think these things but you can’t help it. Because the sleep won’t come and neither will the piss. And hell the back won’t go away either. At least not for a while.

Alright, you say, as you throw your raccoon eyes wide open and do the roley poley. Where the hell did I put those damn cigarettes…

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