the motel room

 

It’s too late now; I’ve opened the wrapper on the chocolate from the mini bar. I’m stuffed now.

I’m staying in a motel room, miles away from home, my partner and a warm fire and I can’t sleep, and so I’ve gone and eaten something from the mini bar. I broke the cardinal rule of staying at hotels / motels and that’s not to get sucked in by the short and stout white temptress filled with sugar and booze.

I’m tired and lonely. I got stood up at dinner by a friend (which I’m not so concerned about) but it’s just the whole sitting at a fancy restaurant all by yourself looking like a dickhead loser. And of course the wait staff stick you right in the middle of the restaurant so everyone can see that you have no friends. I’ve yet to master the skill of lone dining, but I’m sure one day I’ll own it like a mad cat lady who’s just won lotto. Maybe.

In the white heat of abandonment, loneliness, chocolate wrappers and insomnia, I’m right here in the middle of it. It’s my gig. It’s as real as life gets right in this moment. It can’t be anything else.

So what do I do? I write about it.  

It's therapy.