I know how difficult it can be to battle internal demons. I know what it’s like to lose someone to those demons. Many of us do. I wrote Don’t Be a Sally to show my cousin that I saw greatness in him. Even during the worst of his moments. I know what it feels like to be locked in a cell, both mentally, and physically. I wrote this for him. Not against him.
I took an honest approach to the good, bad, and ugly of alcohol abuse. Please give this story a chance. Don’t turn away because of the descriptive first chapter. If you have a family member, or friend, who’s battling with substance abuse, read this, have them read it. It may help. It may not. It’s helped a few, so maybe, it’ll help a few more.
There’s a happy ending.
To read an snippet of chapter one, click the below link.
Well God. Here we are again.
The sweetness was taken away.
So fuck it.
It reminded me of when I was dating a beautifully intelligent liberal woman. Turns out she never wanted kids. Never wanted to marry. Never wanted to live in the same home. Took her two years to tell me. Her favorite saying was, you’re my man. You’re My Man.
She loved to show me off and bragged how my tie matched her outfit. Though I am color blind, she was amazed at my ability to dress. And to smile. And to make her look good.
I grew a beard. I dropped the tie.
She complained about my beard. She didn’t like it. Said it didn’t match her outfit. I said I’m not your Ken Doll. I’ll find someone who does.
My cousin has been in my thoughts lately. For things I’m unable to discuss, or write about, for the time being. Twice last week friends from home called me. Twice they pulled over and let my cousin use their phones to call me. They’d found him walking down random roads.
If all anyone hears is the negative said about them, we as humans, often fall into what those negatives are. Rather than focusing on what’s great about them. I prefer to focus on what’s great about someone. In this story I wrote about the good, the bad, the raw. The truth. This story is not PC. I do not write PC.
Grab a whisky, or wine, or a bottle of cold beer. Or room temperature porter, if you so enjoy a room temperature porter. I know I do. Open said drink(s) and take a little read.
I took the picture for this. I stood on the top of Mount Sugarloaf in Sunderkand, MA. Thanks for reading. I’m finally becoming more comfortable with commenting back and forth with a few of you. Thank you for that. It’s certainly not because of me.
Walk in the woods. Hug an anything. Don’t read the news. Have a beer. Whiskey, fish, work hard, tell someone they look good with their beard, tell another they look good without. Isn’t it easy when we let it be. Sit in your favorite spot and tell your mind no, then yes, because it’s finally time to read. Tell the ones telling, no. You know the no I write of. You created it and it’s waiting to be used. It’s not all metal sheep. It’s only partially all with which we’ve created- a portion of the sheep. But never, listen, to, the, sheep. Tell a thing it isn’t.
a whiskey-sour waits with strong patience-
the wood floor, covered with booted footprints, didn’t ask permission to be
and the patrons themselves loved both the old floor and their friendly whiskey
forget calculated questions, they never matter much anyway, ask truly how the day went
listen with bent heads and shaking of the hands for another day to break
it’s worth the while to visit this place
soon the whiskey-sour is empty and another is needed
want has nothing to do with it
and now the door opens itself to greet with the rest
elevated laughter sounds off,
a man is hitting at his leg, he is wearing blue jeans, dust explodes
his eyes are smiling- he stops at the hitting of his leg to finds his bottle of beer
the bottle is small in his hand
outside is becoming dark, though not dark enough
drinks are given and received while men and women trade secrets
the floor listens to them all, and collects each with normal curiosity
the whiskey-sour, no longer needs to be patient
tonight the chorus of life drinks heartily and happily
without hesitation, for hesitation breeds inability to act,
and to not act would be to not visit this place
‘Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting.’ -Hemingway, ‘The Snow Of Kilimanjaro’
A brilliant short story written by my favorite author. Notice his use of words and non commas when many would argue a comma was needed. I would debate that the commas not used were by design and the flow of the sentence as Hemingway saw it in his mind is much more important than where a comma ought to have been placed. The first line is a good example of what I’m typing about. Imagine a comma after ‘Now’ the entire sentence would stall. In my opinion he wanted the reader to keep pace, or to speed up.
And further, what Hemingway is writing about is truth. All of us writing currently, or whom have stopped writing, know exactly what Hemingway is talking about. For Hemingway to sum it up in one fucking sentence is why I honor the man. There is only one Hemingway and there can never be another.
I appreciate any and all of you who have continued to read my work.