It feels good.
It feels damned good.
Look, for whatever reason, ever since the day after everything shut down, I’ve been jonesing for a burger and a beer sitting out on the deck of my local dive. Yeah, I know, beer isn’t exactly hard to come by, and I can cook my own burger. It might make sense to do it that way — hell, it’ll probably even taste better to do it that way — but that doesn’t even come close to scratching this particular itch.
Crap, do I really have to remind you about the fact that I only really write when I’m sitting out at coffee places and taprooms/bars? I’m not talking about tossing out a few hundred words here and there of marginal quality and little relevance. No, I’m talking about a few thousand words of meaning and effort. I’m talking about writing, dammit.
So, here I sit, reading stories before I start writing — stories off of even pro-Trump, ultra-conservative sites, mind you, to go with the neutral and liberal ones I also read — about 3,000+ deaths a day expected by June. About the growing possibility of a “second wave” of coronavirus. About the fact that those woods we’re walking through? Yeah, they ain’t really any thinner yet.
Do I feel guilty? Do I feel like I should be sitting, still, inside and isolated while I contemplate what to cook for dinner?
No. No, I don’t
Look, I fully realize that eating a greasy, fatty burger and fries sitting on a public deck is killing me. In more ways than one it is killing me. But…well…it’s worth it, for the high. Yeah, yeah…I just compared my afternoon to a drug. Because, well, it is…at least to me.
Look, I’ve spent my time with various potions, powders and pills. I (probably) spend too much time with beer and coffee. But my real drug of choice? Yeah, today is it. Grease and fat and beer sitting — socially distant, of course — in the sunshine while I write and contemplate the world.
So, this afternoon, I mainlined an oversized dose…and the high is everything I dreamed it would be. I know there’s going to be consequences, but those are for tomorrow. For now? For right now, I’m gonna shove another french fry down my gullet, have another drink of beer, and revel in my personal version of escape.