Correspondence: Fall, 2000

Nine o’clock came and went unnoticed. I put a load of laundry in to dry and one in to wash and played a game of checkers with my niece. Then, off to deal with the vicissitudes of sobriety. My remaining waking hours were a study in tedium. If, as Voltaire said, “Work saves us from three great evils: boredom, vice and need,” so do vice and need save us from boredom. As I had already worked, then eliminated the vice, all that was left was a sense of mind-numbing ennui.

It was after I went to sleep that things took a turn. I suppose at some point my neurons got tired of looking for Jagermeister and tried to find some way to amuse themselves. My unfettered mind started dreaming the dreams of the damned — aliens, mutants, plane crashes, old girlfriends, saving a drowning kitten. Had I been awake, it would more rightly have been called a psychotic episode. From my experience, though, this lasts only a night or two before old patterns re-establish themselves and I’ll sleep like a babe.

How’s the cigarette thing going? Any craziness?
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Night two with no Jager. It was like opening the shutters on the window to my soul, allowing an uncomfortable amount of introspection. That’s probably why I don’t do this too often; I see too many wrong choices and too much wasted time. I did think of several things that need to be written as soon as I get my computer fixed. Drop the booze, find the muse, I guess.
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A pall has settled over the office as we realize the last UPS pickup is looming before us and we are almost certainly going to miss our deadline with the candy client. It’s time I started working on backup plans to get the stuff to the client, because I know it will come to that. And yet, as I steel myself for a late night of last minutes, I don’t really care about “communicating the functional benefits of hunger satisfaction” ... I just want to take a nap.

Correspondence: March, 2000

March 3, 2000

… I’m looking forward to the exercise from the Frisbee. I want my chest to stick out farther than my stomach like it did when I was in my twenties.
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Hey, I’m old! But for a little short guy, I can JUMP!
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Actually, I spent quite a bit of time growing up on my aunt’s and uncle’s farm in Tennessee. I was the one that the girls beat up.
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Never! (Although I did break a kid’s nose once)
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He crossed me, man, so I clocked him in the nose with a rock. He was a couple of years older than me, but he deserved it.

I found out later from his little brother that after the incident he was found getting a .22 out of the garage to come and get me. I defended myself well the first time, but I might not have done as well if the kid was packing heat.


March 9, 2000

I’m about to have lunch with my significant mother to celebrate my 25th birthday. I always celebrate that one because it was good.
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That would be keen. It would be good to have some pictures of me on show site to remind my superiors to let me go again. I need to get out there in the real world more; I get that trapped feeling in my little office. So the next time y’all have a meeting, be sure to ask for me by name — accept no substitutes.
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The good thing about being a CREATIVE Coordinator is that when you DO goof off you can always claim that you were “ideating.” That gets you points for being creative and extra points for using a buzz-word.

It’s almost time to slip out early and go to Grady’s. I made Pete the bartender card me last night so he would notice my date of birth and give me free drinks tonight. I hope it worked.
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Otherwise, all is well here in Atlanta. ... Give my best to everyone down there I know. Ciao! (Or, if you’re from the South, “Cow!”)