I drink too much

I write too little.
I say too much.
I listen too little.

Maybe the world wants too much from me.
Maybe I want too much from the world.
Maybe is the name of George Michael’s cousin/lover in Arrested Development (great family-oriented show.)

All I know is I’ll probably wake up tomorrow and sleepwalk through the morning, deny coffee so I can still trick my mind into falling asleep behind my shades, and saunter in and out of whatever conversation I’m in, typically adding nothing more than shot of cynicism in the morning. I’m no caffeine. I’m no fireball. I’m a slow burn. It takes time for people to adjust to me. I won’t say like because people tend to either love me or hate me, there’s no in between.

I rarely make a good first impression; I come on too strong. I wear my emotions on my sleeve so you can probably guess how I’m feeling at any given time, unless I wear shades. Then boom, you can still probably guess.

Even though I use alcohol as a personality trait, I really don’t drink that much. At least not back to back to back on the same day. One Whisky a day? That’s more realistic, and healthy. It’s a routine. Like vitamins, or hump day. You expect it, and therefore, are prepared for it.

Am I painting myself in the best light? To be fair, I was never a painter. I’m god awful at Painting with a Twist. Sure, I dabbled in graffiti growing up, ruining the occasional wall or two-hundred, but now I just coexist among the typewriter. But I can’t say I’m a writer either. Writers write. I’m better at Canva than Microsoft Word.

I’m going to make myself another drink.