Get home, celebrate successful return with a few more beers! Go to bed. There'd be fleeting moments when it was just right, but it always ended in frustration. Back to the present and the second intrusion, the clincher: I had promised myself in the morning that I wasn't going to drink that day. (Blessed routine, indeed!) It would have to wait, so there went that fantasy. Briefly, very briefly, I'm feeling the weight of a grand, cosmic injustice. No fair! For about thirty seconds I felt resentful of my own stupid promise, but that too passed quite quickly. But, oh those thirty seconds, really like being on an island, a miserable, stinking little pisshole of solitude. Luckily for me there are millions upon millions of swim instructors and it's easy, and essential, to get off. Fast. In a flash it's all gone, the notion of injustice turns out to be hysterically funny. So I want to join them? Be my guest, step right up. I think about it. Nope. Maybe another day, for another ball game. Experiences of this kind are quite infrequent for me, but it does happen every once in a while.
I write this entry in memory of Dr. Rodney Hough, who died last week at age 65. Rod recovered from hardship and addiction with great determination, usually with good cheer, and always with an unbeatable sense of humor. Rod, baby, you did good! Oh man, will we miss ya!