THE MEANING OF LIFE
I suppose it’s a bit more of an anecdote than a commentary. Twenty-two years ago and it seems like last week.
Isn’t that something old farts say?
The aftermath from the previous night’s whirlwind revelry had become all too familiar. Friends had come and friends had gone. My tiny, one bedroom apartment in Thornton, Colorado, was, once again, strewn with empty beer bottles and soggy cigarette butts that lay decomposing in makeshift ashtray tombs.
The pungent pong of stale beer and cheap tobacco turned my stomach as I, having just roused at the crack of noon and suffering the hangover of all hangovers, staggered the short distance from my lonely bedroom to my lonelier kitchenette.
My daily refrigerator inventory cataloged exactly one large Domino’s Pizza box, containing exactly one half-eaten piece of stale pepperoni, and a three-quarters-empty Coors Party Ball. The sink was full of foul-smelling dishes, and the trash can had flies.
Yes, it was pitiful.
Yes, I was pitiful.
My high school sweetheart and wife of nearly five years, you see, had kicked me out and filed for divorce a few months earlier saying that I’d never amount to anything. At the moment, her words seemed a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I was crushed.
Looking forward to reading more. Great post. Awesome.