As I sit in front of my computer, Whitesnake and Queensryche plays in the background. The clicking of keys and the rock voices of Ian Astbury and others drift over the sound of Starcraft and The Little Einsteins in the background. The glass in front of me contains 1 part Cruzan rum and 1 part coke. The pack of cigarettes stare me in the face, begging me for just one smoke. Just one and the world will be a better place. I don't want a cigarette. I don't even want to smoke. I barely do now, only under two circumstances: Instances of incredible stress, and instances of depression. My mood darkened and finally fell to black approximately 30 minutes ago. The sound of ice preceding the sound of the rum falling from the bottle. Ice cracked and rose as the glass slowly filled. I went from flying so high today. But like Icarus my wings have melted and I have crashed to earth. To earth with a realisation of some sort. My mind tries to find what conclusion it has come to. It's as clueless as I am. I haven't been really and truly depressed in a long time. Especially in light of the happiness I've felt recently this strikes me as odd. Am I manic/depressant? Am I just simply caught in a funk? Is there no communication in this car? We can't stop here, it's bat country.
I long for new words from Hunter S. Thompson. I crave to hear the Gonzo report from the frontlines of the American way. I'm pulling the plug on my RPG playtest. I had only one person that responded and he is now in Great Lakes making possibly the second biggest mistake of his life. The first was not taking my advice 3 years ago. I've decided that this RPG is not going anywhere. I've been writing and pushing for this thing for close to 3 years now. I'm tired. I'm spent and paper thin as far as my dreams for this thing go. I want to sleep. I haven't slept for 3 nights now. No one knows this. When you're in the middle of sleep deprivation everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. I want to feel the warmth of the sun and feel the rumble of thunder. We can swim out to the ocean. Leave them far behind. Swim out past the breakers. Watch the world die.
The glass is empty, only melted ice and the diluted mixture of dark estate rum and coke intermingled with the water shed from the disintegrating ice cubes. The son winds up his plastic puppy and watched it lurch across the floor. The sounds of Protoss Carriers releasing their payload of Interceptors all performing an aerial ballet to a soundtrack of Lords of Acid and Tool. Ian Astbury still sings sings of his Fire Woman and tells us that She Sells Sanctuary. All will be right with the world tomorrow I am sure of it.
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