Capetonification

Ernest Hemingway once said: "Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut."

I'm drunk. And I said to someone I was going to blog. I was sober when I said it. That sort of fucks Ernie's pearls up a bit, but I like to think I'm still paying the man some sort of homage.

These days it's hard to define what I did when I was sober. Seems that I have a penchant for not giving a shit either way.

I left you all, my people for months. It was a hiatus I didn't see coming, and one that had no needing.
But the words haven't been coming.
I've been rotting in a hole. My minds been going to shit. I read nothing of substance, and write nothing.
It's been a dismal string of months. Everyday my shithole job drags me deeper into some sort of void that sees me disappear from a life more personal.
I'm too far gone to save.
I wan't to mangle my my fuck-hole manager's face.
I can't work with the douchebag anymore.
The booze at day's end are like some twisted reward, a perfect close to a day's perfect suffering.
Sometimes I think of handing in that letter I wrote all those months ago.
Just so I can see the look on their faces.

In my clearer moments I wonder what it's all for.
I know I don't wan't this weight on my soul, but I go back to it without a moments hesitation.
There we go.
Good boy. Bend over.
Take it up the ass.
It's a waiting game. Someone always cracks.
I think I'm strong, but it's starting to sink in.
I'm feeling sparse.
They're going to win.

Jesus. The Cape Town sun is beginning to beat hard. I'm burning red. Like some lobster. But it feels good. It's 34 degrees out here. I can hardly see what I'm writing, and hardly care to think that it matters.

Look at the time. I'm heading out to Pepenero's.
I've got a date with some tequila I'm planning on keeping.

Forever yours,

The Professor.