250 WORDS

It is almost dawn. One more day of work and then a long weekend. I should be thankful for the things that I have in life. But I'm not. I lean back in my chair and stare at the screen. I need to write 250 words. I've written 50.

I drank three cold drafts last night and picked at a plate of shrimp. The chick I invited had a glass of wine and a salad.

"Mi amor," she cooed.

I should be happy, but I'm not. I sometimes think that I'm mentally ill. I am thankful that I don't have a gun in the room because out of pure whimsy I would turn it on myself. I don't fight the current. The current fights me. I don't understand it. I don't understand much.

There's nothing awaiting us except oblivion. I suppose that isn't a comforting thought for those who are clinging to consciousness, but I don't think we are meant forever. We are accidents of circumstances.

I saw an old friend when I was dining. He said I looked great. That was a consoling thought. As long as I give the appearance that I'm in fighting shape, there's no reason to throw in the towel.

One does grow weary, though, weary of the guilt. The guilt never goes away.

It's time for that first cup of coffee and a banana. Perhaps I'll go to the Island this weekend. That's mas o menos 250 words.