Undercover

The other night, I found that the novel I had been working on had lost all the changes I’d made in the last four months. I punched my faux leather couch 11 times. I drank five shots of bourbon. I said the word “fuck” about 30 times over the course of 10 fucking minutes. The only thing that calmed me down was my boyfriend, who, without a word, got up, lit some incense, and let in some fresh air.

About a month ago, I went off on my friends from high school. They were getting married and had been taking their stress out on anyone within firing distance. They say you lose two friends with every marriage. I curse the fact that my temper has been slipping away from me as of late. It’s never been easy making friends while managing Asperger’s. I just can’t seem to figure out how to make things stick; how did I ever make things stick in the first place? Apart from concerts, I don’t see much of people these days unless I’m with my boyfriend. I haven’t been to a concert in over a week, and I’m starting to feel like a dried-up corn husk.

Tonight, I’m sipping wine and basking under the warm glow of a desk lamp. My broken novel is sitting open in my Word documents. Have I become that soul who manages to bring up his literary catastrophe in every conversation hoping someone will care? Probably. I’ve heard whispers about a new DIY venue opening in Golden that I want to check out. There is a Facebook group for them, but they leave cryptic messages in their story. Are they making fun of those who can’t decode these damn things? What do these dark omens mean and am I in danger?

On quiet nights when I write alongside a bottle of red and my black cat, my far-fetched interpretations, those that usher in paranoia, feel more occult than philosophical. There is a certain brand of witchcraft that one can bring onto the soul if they want to feel completely alone. I am so familiar with this ancient art. Where are my people; why have they forsaken me?