Lunar eclipse

I.
By the time you even start reading this first paragraph three in the morning will have already become a staple through the cadence of a calendar shedding its sheets like a snake shedding its skin, and I´m bowing down not really in reverence for yourself but to pick up that very skin instead, then wearing it over my own.
In lieu of all this apparently-inherent fatalism borne out from Jörmungandr´s bowels, though, I´ve come to think of life in more practical terms and that´s the very subject of this week´s post to you. Also maybe to stop the you-though-from-a-figment-of-mine from grimacing: You never really liked the drama-queen in me regardless of all my efforts to convince you I was actually pushing for the messianic anyhow.

So I´ve obviously fast-forwarded whatever it was that ever became of last Friday´s wake up to the point I´m counting the half-empty glasses of vodka-and-pineapple on this small table in an outside area, maybe like a terrace, at this trendy bar with the Vietnamese motif-thing going, and wondering just how I´ve really wandered inside. I don´t have to look at the clock to guess the time, and neither do you: May the audience formally accept my dwelling into repetition and assume the usual two, three, four am´s on a Saturday morning.
“And regardless of how you ever feel about this idiotic pre-destination thing man it sort of boils down to just how you´ve been born anyway, and to whom, and that´s where it just gets binary if you really think of it,” I´m talking to **** by my side without really looking at him, slurring every word through an ice cube melting over my tongue. “You know, all those ones and zeros ones and zeros ones and zeros randomly repeating themselves over and over and over again? Well people like us, Poindexter, we were just born as ones, what can you do. Let all those zeros carry our luggage and drive our taxis, you know?”. He nods over his beer, says something to that effect and it´s like after every sentence we get to laugh tiny little peccadillos into the night.

Justifying one´s living of his or her life by crying out to one´s birthright is possibly the lowliest form of being and up until a few months ago I honestly believed I was just skimming the coasts of being a total asshole, now I just don´t care anymore: Whatever happens, I´m making the most of it and if it ever gets to the point you may no longer call me a boy scout, your golden boy, then who the f*ck cares? -- because everybody wants to rule the world anyway and now all I dream of owning, is owning everything.

There is a certain charm after all, a certain flair in a heroin-chic kind-of way, in becoming someone you´ve always said you´d never become: In more practical terms you may think of the ego as the perfect wave, and I know what you and I used to say of surfer-boys.
And once we leave the bar a few hours later I tell **** of this girl I´m having over the next day, and of all the black, black things I´ve been thinking of doing to her. I also get to try to predict what her reaction will be like, and every word she might say in either protest, or fear or disgust. The look on his face almost tells me to go a little lighter but the smile on his lips clearly point otherwise. We bid goodbye as usual, the dispute for who gets to be the devil´s own son still officially pending but deep down it´s clear to me I´m still pedestrian on this and that the player on the other side remains half a world ahead. But being born smart means I get to learn amazingly fast, and that only by watching.


II.
The next day this girl comes over anyhow and stays the night, at least up until the moment she leaps from the mattress on the ground, yelling at me, calling me crazy, asking me if I have no sense at all, and zips up her jeans in a hurry amidst tears.
I start giggling but not really because of her, but in fact because Saturday Night Live has a special about David Spade tonight and this very funny sketch with Chris Farley and Adam Sandler is on and is a lot more interesting than some twenty-year-old´s histrionics. More crying ensues from her part, to which I react with minor contempt by pointing out how does she even expect to get a taxi by this time in the night, and if she´s even considering how much it would cost anyway, given her living somewhere past where the subway lines reach.
She ends up giving in anyhow, as if there was ever a different way.


III.
Later that night I find myself thinking of you, and in picturing you in my mind I can see your face as you´re pointing at me accusingly, giving names to my sins, to all of them, asking me just what have I become, then calling me scum and a liar.

I can also see sunrises new if I only try, but they´re all dimming out into nights most dire...