Glass Half Drunk
Glass is about eight ounces, bout four of whiskey left in it. My mouth's whisperin to me she's half empty; still mostly emptied belly's bitchin it's still half full. I find myself indiffrent, but wary of drinking another drop, and disruptin the delicate balance of their argument.
My eyes are half-closed, heavy from the liquor and not sleepin, but still they're watchful of the tender, who they suspect of fueling the glass every time I leave to piss. He ain't gived me the queer eye, so I can't imagine why that'd be, but my gut gurgles in agreement, though I don't know as he's to be trusted, as he's been an ornerier sumbitch tonight.
Without the drinkin to occupy the mind, I ruminate on the particuelars that brung me- the ones I'll leave with when I'm done. As a boy soldier I fought in the Vietnam. This was years after the war, got half in the bag and into a toussle with some locals. My discharge was dishonorable, though the army docs swore to me it was only a little blood, and oughtta clear up soon nuff. Hrmh.
I contemplate the drunkard's gamble, slammin what's left in the glass and drivin home like bats out of my ex-mother-in-law's crotch to beat the intoxication home. But I got nothin particuelar at home worth rushin to. My first ex-wife weren't half-bad to look at; second ex-wife weren't half-pretty. Neither mattered, couse neither could half-stand me (and don't think I don't ever wonder why the only women I can stand can't stand me).
Traded in my pick-up for a sedan with a big back seat the night I killed a whole family a road signs, hardly slowin til that hydrant caught on my fender- and still it barely showed under the dirt on my 350; figured if I was stupid enough to drive home skunky, I'd only get myself killt.
So if y'all will excuse me, I'm going to take advantage off that accomodating big back seat, and no, I don't mean the barfly proppin up the juekbox side of the ladies' room, hrmh, to sleep it off til half-past morning. Bless y'all, and get home safe if you git at all.