super bowl sunday

I'm walking laps around my apartment complex. Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona, a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall, headlights, streetlights, lighters, swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright. I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night, but finally past the nausea.

I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family. The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in the waning hours of night.

I woke at 9 this morning to find her barely covered in a ratty, blanket, no pillow under her ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red, asking if I was okay.

I thought she was overreacting. She shoved water in my face. She said, "Drink it, damnit." Like she'd tried a few thousand times before, and apparently she had,I just didn't remember any of it.

She had saved me around 4. She cleaned off a death mask of filthy vomit by force. I wouldn't comply because I wasn't coherent.

Tonight as I touch each crack of the pavement with my sole, the rest of the human family is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque off their pudgy fingers, and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.

I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline, said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow found contentedness in "everything is". That never made much sense to me. Bukowski found god in fucking and drinking beer. Vonnegut said when god created the world, man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised, and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."