Woke up with a booze headache on a wet, lukewarm Columbus morning stinking of cheap bourbon and regret. There’s that feeling in my gut that either means I got in a fight that stirred up the drinks after I put them away or I made a life-altering bad decision. All signs point to the latter, but who knows. There’s a certain spice added to life when, first thing every morning, you wake to gather where you are, how you got there, what you’ve done. 

Who gives a shit anymore.

Grab up the dog, mumble a farewell to whichever hospitable friend happened to offer a couch or a floor to the cause of not getting tragically behind a wheel the night before, light up a smoke and step outside to survey the damage. I never know how much I’ve had until this very moment.

Yup, still drunk.

Where could the car be? Dog’s pulling right, I’ll try the right.

What luck, it’s close. I can already see the dull light of the clouds reflecting off the wet gloss paper of the parking ticket under the windshield wipers. $40. That’s not getting paid, add it to the pile. I wonder when they’ll decide to arrest me.

I used to wake up and laugh about this feeling; this slow, creeping ache. I used to wake everyone up to talk about how unbelievable our night of questionable decisions and overindulgence was. Anymore it just makes me think about the things I drink to avoid.

‘Won’t be seeing her any longer,’ says my bruised conscience as I put the car in gear, piecing a bit of the puzzle together in my head as I remember the girl I’ve been after, pissed off and drunk walking me out because she was worried the dog might get hurt. Fucking dog, girl’d be long gone if I didn’t have it. There’s only so long someone like that can tolerate a lifestyle like mine, drinking and smoking like I can’t stand to be alive, loud music, reckless decisions. Aything to distract me from what real life actually is. Bland existence isn’t enough for me, but it’s all we’ve got. Enter distractions, stage present.

If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all…

The blues breeze through me like medicine when I flip on the radio. Thank god for local stations, this soothes away a bit of the misery. This is the reason I’m ultimately happy to be alive. The little distractions that make you forget your troubles, make you forget troubles happen to people. God damn my head hurts. There’s no getting away from that.

Jerk back into the left lane, look around for cops. Out loud: “fuck if I’m getting pulled over for a DUI at 9:30 in the morning.” That’s the last thing my bleeding ego needs right now, the kind of law violation that ends social lives as we know them. 

The music changes tone and it hits me now, the yearning that burns with the desperation of newspaper in a garbage fire. She’ll forget me like a leaf across the windshield. I can’t do anything but keep driving.

I can’t shake this sensation in my gut. This is different from the normal nausea that follows my all too typical indulgence. This is something I started feeling a long time ago. It’s a strange sort of feeling, a different sort, one that may actually mean I’m experiencing an emotion at a time of day that I can’t distract myself. I am not amused. 

At night, amidst the sounds of mirth and carelessness I cover up the reality of my unrequited lust and the hurtful pangs of withheld affection with drinks and good company. This isn’t hard. These aren’t real problems I’m having. The problem is the wanderlust kicking back in, and the bits and pieces of myself that I’ve left here aren’t distracting me anymore. A woman can’t distract me, booze can only slow me down. None of this is working. I’ve blissfully told my stories of travel and experience hundreds of times over, and I’ll tell them hundreds of times again, but they’ll mean nothing until I’m on my way to adding to them.

It first hit me as I was booking west out of Cumberland, MD in the middle of the fog and snow at 75 in my dirty little Korean hatchback. And I thought: I’m addicted to this. I’m going through the withdrawal as I write this in my head while I drive away from this latest ramble, cigarette in hand with the window down and something to keep me awake on the radio. I’m addicted to this feeling, the change, the difference. I can’t stop thinking about how things would be if I’d stayed. I usually stay a while when I wander off, but I’d yet to find a place so worth wandering to. I can’t stay this time, or at the very least staying wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do, and I’ve never before felt disappointment that comes close to the loss of that freedom. Most people fear change, so far I haven’t been able to do without it. But maybe I’m getting past that. Maybe this time would’ve been the time I’d never have left, I’ve always looked for that. Maybe I can go back.

Fuck that.

Nothing’s worth anything, not even two years later when everything’s changed. I heard that old hard times blues tune this morning driving to work in a different state, a different car, in a military uniform, having temporarily satiated my need for a revolving door lifestyle. Albert King, tell me my story.

Born under a bad sign

I been down since I begin to crawl

If it wasn’t for bad luck,

I wouldn’t have no luck at all

Fuckin-a right, Al.

The dog’s gone now, replaced by the service, a 600 square foot farmhouse and a Remington 770 30 .06. A lawn for a driveway and Adirondack chairs made of firewood. I still wander. Out to the coast on weekends, new bars, quick friends. North to Pennsylvania to try and make something good. West to Ohio to remember where all this started. Love. Sex. Camels and Bulleit bourbon. Jack Daniels when the bills are due. I’ve been away a while, but there’s no end in sight. The door keeps revolving and I keep wondering when it’s going to let me in.