Long Post, Full Glass

So this was going to be one of those witty posts. You know the ones. The posts that people read and say, "Wow, that guy is something."


Then I started sliding down the low road. That road leads nowhere, beloved. At the most, it leads into a low spot, where stagnation and rot occur. In the heart of all human trouble lies the road to nowhere that I now sit in middle of with dull apathy.

I'm afraid people think I'm an asshole. I am most definately not an asshole at least a good 95% of the time. My writing style hints at someone I am not, not really. My style, or voice or whatever English major types like to call it, is not a friendly one. People do not read me and say to themselves, "Now this is a guy to trust with nice thoughts of puppies and such."

My friends, and this term I use in this instance for those who have actually heard me speak and enjoy the practice, generally tell me that my prose style or writing voice is very masculine. I guess that means I don't sound like a girl. I find that fascinating. What do women "sound" like in the theatre of pointless blogging bullshit? I have no idea. I can tell with some certainty when I read a man's writing. They usually talk a little too much about beer and hint a little too much about some scandalous hooker who destroyed their faith in femininity. I hope I don't do that. I talk as much as I can about whiskey, not beer, and don't even bother hinting about that damn scandalous hooker. That was in jest; I am not aware of anywhere on this little corner of CSS that I have ever said a disparaging utterance about a woman. Perhaps I have voiced some perplexed frustration, but I have nothing but love for any written of here.

I forgot where I was going with all this. The cold and brown and toxic beauty in my hands has made me a little too speculative. The flow and ebb, the neep and spring, and the general psuedopodia movement of the universe is displayed in the slick of ice melting into the 50.5% death by Turkey in my clear sweaty glass. None of the movement is with purpose and none of the movement is with cause. The water and alcohol mix swirl in the random eddies of life.

In that life I find something soothing. I will be sad when this glass is empty, but were I not to drink it, the ice would eventually melt away and the water and alcohol, being the same temperature (I refuse to take the tangent of the inexact nature of measurement), will be able to blend away into homogeny. The beauty I do not want to destroy will destroy itself by the very nature of that pulchritude. Am I hinting at a scandalous hooker? No, not this time. Though I hope to one day remember the analogy.

The glass has more or less emptied itself into me. The ice remains along with whatever pretty little brown passengers managed to avoid their metabolization. I love me some pretty little brown passengers. Also not analogous, at least not this time.

The brown, such an ugly adjective for so golden and beatific a shade of caramel, cascades slowly down the monsters of ice in the glass. The flattening of the liquid against the glass, testament to the unending truths of hydrology, is beautiful.

The beauty, not only the beauty here, but the beauty of all things, rushes through me. The beauty needs an evangelist. I have not the words. Beauty is such an odd word in that its state defies its definition. Perfect imperfections and crooked smiles and so forth. I am failing beauty, and I am afraid if I fail it, it will leave. Beauty is a fickle lover, never tolerant of those who are unwilling or unable to love her with words that are true. I fail beauty, so it leaves. The golden caramel is nothing more than booze. The sunset is nothing more than deflected light. I have failed beauty and it has left me. Also not analogous, at least not this time.

I am saddened that it is not.