It never ends. You write a blog to distract your mind. You write about dead rock stars and actors and macho movies and you pseudo-philosophize about life and death and religion, and if you’re drunk enough you wade into the swamp of politics, and after a while you realize it’s all bullshit, and if not that, then it comes under the heading of who gives a flying fuck.
You do it because the grief and the guilt never end. You write bullshit to take your mind off a reality that cannot be drowned with 80-proof liquor or subdued with Xanax, the combination of which should at least put you to sleep for the night, but insomnia grabs hold of your brain and shakes it to death without actually killing it. The torture of grief and guilt is diabolical.
A few people have tried to help along the way. J. in Canada came out of a dark and distant past with a love that in reality is a lost dream; R. in the South, who has written for this blog, tried her best to put me on the road to God but I was irretrievably lost in a void of disbelief; K. in Florida offered friendship on a dead-end road to nowhere.
On this blog and in the narrow corner of my life, I have been charged with self-pity. My lawyer advised me to plead not guilty, but to hell with that — I am guilty.
It’s been two years and nine months and I am guilty of the crimes of grief and guilt. Throw me in a cell, throw me in hell. I couldn’t care less.