A Glass Half-Empty

Another long night, another day. My head throbs and there’s an uneasy feeling in my gut. Nauseous, but not quite queasy enough to vomit. I roll off my back and sit on the edge of the bed. I run my hands over my face and hair, attempting to recall what happened after I left the bar last night. Or early this morning, to be technical. I try not to be technical. Living this lifestyle, technicalities only muddy the waters of the conscience and leave one questioning. I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to. Pass.

“Barrrragh!” I burp loudly.

I’m surprised I didn’t puke. It’s difficult to gauge belches this time in the morning. It’s even more of a struggle to trust belches later in the night. A belly full of drink can cause a man to expel a gastronomical movement followed by chunky stomach acid or even worse, the remnants of the evening’s alcohol intake. Waste of money, if you ask me. I even regard urinating in a watering hole as a literal pissing away of money. Which is why I rarely visit a public restroom. “Fuck em’”, I think. If I’m paying premium prices for drinks, I’m going to soak up the lot. Not a drop wasted. Every penny earned.

I recline up onto my feet. Standing slowly so as not to allow the blood to rush to my head and faint. I used to arise too quickly until the last time I attempted this and found myself in the emergency room with 6 stitches upon passing out upright and smacking my head on the bathroom door whilst relieving myself in the toilet. Puddles of blood everywhere. Believe me, sitting in a hospital waiting room covered in Type O and urine is no way to go through a Thursday. Though there are worse fates. I could work in sanitation on my day-to-day.

Walking to the bathroom of this 1-bedroom apartment I realize how cozy my nest has become, with the exception of a collection of old Rolling Stone magazines nestled neatly in the corner of my bedroom, which I amassed, beginning in my youth ranging from 1999-present. The rest of the apartment is filled with essentials. Groceries, beer, whiskey, records, television, couch.

I’m appreciating my place more so now considering I haven’t worked in a couple months and have been blowing through my savings to remain afloat. “This could all be gone tomorrow”, I think. And then what? I could always move back in with my parents, but at my age (30), that would mean residing myself to the fact that I probably wouldn’t get laid again until I earned enough cash to pay a security deposit and 1st month’s rent on a new place. Most likely in an awful neighborhood. Something I have grown out of, despite only working minimum wage manual labor jobs for the last 8 or so years. “Fuck it, I’ll figure it out another day.” For now, I just need to piss.

I reach the toilet and sit down on the seat. I always sit when I pee in the mornings. 2 reasons: I am ill-equipped to stand at this juncture and the piss boner I’m nursing will only spray in one direction, the one I’m not aiming. I listen to the liquid stream from my urethra spray into the water bowl. Sweet relief.

I visibly notice my lower abdomen, around the location of my bladder, decrease in size and swelling from the urine draining out of my system. Down, down, down, until a flatter surface under my naval is left.

I flush the toilet and pull my boxers up around my waist. Noticing dribbles of urine on the seat from penial leakage, I wipe it from the surface with toilet paper and toss it in the trash bin. On the bathroom counter sits 2 framed photos. The 1st photograph is of my sisters and me when all 7 of us were in our early to late 20s. A reference to a past that featured joyous, confident faces looking toward a promising future that never was. The 2nd photograph is an image of a group of my childhood friends dating back to our high school years. Not all of the souls in these photographs are still among the living. As I look into the eyes of the now deceased, I am reminded that one day all of us will be nothing more than faces in a photograph. Entombed on paper behind glass as nothing more than a memory of past generations.

I quickly glance in the mirror and gather myself. Combing back my brownish auburn hair in an attempt to be presentable. I consider shaving, but the thought leaves as fast as it came. Normally, I’m self-conscious about my beard growing out, exposing my ginger facial hair, but there’s only a little stubble showing this morning. It will be fine for now.

I exit the lavatory and make my way into the kitchen, pouring a tall glass of water, followed by a rapid chugging. Hydration for the day. Breathing heavily, I pour another glass of water and begin to sip it reluctantly. Nothing tastes good to me in the morning, except for water. One of only 2 remedies for this ailment. The aforementioned numerous glasses of water and the 1st alcoholic drink of the day. I hope to have the latter very soon.

My nose feels stuffed up and I snort up the snot through my nostrils and down into my throat, hacking up the loogie into my mouth. I hold the wad of mucus in my oral cavity and return to the bathroom to spit into the sink. I wash down the loogie and watch it swirl down the drain. I glance at the photographs on the counter top again and reflect on my friendships. I have a few left. Though the one’s I do have are always waiting for me. Between noon and 2am. I’ll see them there.