Clean Slate

So much red wine. Dead soldiers litter the kitchen floor and drip  precariously from the counter ledge. Happy birthday to Ryan. Every year's a bloody miracle. He spends so much of his time trying to annihilate himself that making it to next weekend is never a safe bet. He can't even remember who was at the party. Janet, Su, maybe Rick and D, but Nat's still asleep on his floor tangled in last night's stockings so obviously she made it. It's his Jesus year. Never thought he make it past 27, the year all great players die. Not that would deign to compare himself to a Jimi or Janis or Jim or Kurt. Fuck, 33 is really old. It's time to man up, put on his big boy pants and deal with his shit. That's Nat's voice in his head. She's one to talk, a mess of tequila soaked heartbreak on the rug. Damn. Careful not to light the stove nearby or she may spontaneously combust. Christ, how did they get like this? East side piss poor wanna-be Sid and Nancy. He was going to quit the bar, he was; doing sound was the way to keep him connected to the scene and the cash was good. Plus, the free pints and constant stream of available pussy was too much to deny. He and Nat have been doing this dance for too long, too many towns, too many ups and downs. This is the year. Yeah, this time he's gonna get his shit together, with or without her. He feels like crap for even thinking it but maybe Nat won't wake up this time and he can wipe the slate clean, so to speak. Freakin awful idea, he knows but geez, fuck man, it's hard between them. Exhausting. Be nice to have a fresh start, reborn, Christ like. Tabula rasa, right?

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