WordPress thoughtfully notified me this morning that today is the eighth year anniversary of my swelling underground classic blog, Bourbon Apocalypse. (I will go to my grave proud of that name.)
I remember that day–surprisingly, given the amount of alcohol that I have consumed in the past eight years. I was sitting outside my local
Trinkets Books-A-Million, using its WiFi.
I had just returned to my adopted hometown after my second tour of grad school (Mississippi State University–Starkville, what a dreadful, dreadful city). I was still engaged. In fact, if one cares to peruse, one can find comments left by my ex-fiancee on my earliest entries.
I decided to return to grad school after my girlfriend at the time broke up with me over the phone while I was finishing my shift at the local library. I excused myself from the reference desk, walked to an empty (or so I thought–not the case) corner of the library, and left her the most vicious voicemail. I, most horribly, would, a few years later, break up with my fiancee over the phone. I still feel guilty about that dastardly move. What a piece of shit I was–perhaps still am.
I took my Catholic faith much more seriously than I currently do. However, as only a Catholic can attest, the specter of Catholicism will continue to haunt a Catholic, devout or not, for the rest of his/her life. Though this may constitute the sin of presumption, I do hope one day to return to a more consistent practicing of the faith, for, if there is no other reason, I could never fully disembarrass myself of my devotion to Mary, the Mother of God.
I think of the friends that I had in my life eight years ago whom I no longer have or care to have and the friends who have wandered into my life during this time and the friends who have remained consistent. Oh, the adventures that we have had and the parties that we have thrown and the conversations that have been savored. For some reason, one prominent memory that sticks out to me was riding in the back of truck with a friend because there was no room inside. We had spent the evening consuming Mai Tai pitchers and playing old country songs on the jukebox at the most atmospheric Thai restaurant I have ever visited. It was cold, and the mist was sharp; however, my friend and I giggled like schoolgirls the entire ride. Once we arrived at our destination, I passed out on a couch, only to wake up at regular intervals to bless him and the random girl with whom he was dancing at an impromptu house dance party. We both agreed that I would have made a great whiskey priest. He is now married and expecting his second child.
I had not started teaching at the junior college where I still teach. I had to move back to my parents’ place to find my bearings. The enormous amount of free time–an amount of time that I will never again have free–that I squandered. Then again, I did take quite a few meandering walks at the local lake–never wasted time, in my opinion. During this span of time, I have determined that teaching is not my vocation, but there is nothing else I can do, honestly. I am, more or less, worthless–unless you need an incredibly charming conversationalist in the house.
The women. My God, the women who have come into and exited my life in the past eight years. Most of them, sadly, I will remember as nothing more than warm ways to have passed the time. The ones whom I will remember differently will be the ones I wish I could forget.
If nothing else, the past eight years have revealed to me that my vocation is to write. A sickly ennui descends on me whenever I am not writing. Though no one may ever acknowledge my writing, I will continue to proclaim my creed in the darkness.
Ah, the ennui.