Beneath it all there was the simple disappointment that the only things I'd succeeded at were avoidance and sloth. I was happy, day by day, and there were always moments I enjoyed, although there was an undeniable lack of color that had been with me from the start, a clear disconnect between myself and the way the world worked, the demands it made and the rewards on offer.

But even then I had to admit that what I wanted could not be expressed without a sense of failure and shame.

Ambition numbed and atrophied, I found peace and satisfaction in my idiocy, until I wised up and saw what I had wasted.

I forget there were others in the world, and fell into myself.

Hiding in a cafe with another beer, I escaped a better fate and wanted to be no one.

The anger that broke me was still inside, all it needed was a drink.

I threw away half my life to hurt my father.

I slice ginger, boil water, and purge the poison and dismay.

I never knew I was poor until it was too late to do much of anything about it.

 And just like that, I did nothing.

Sex ended far too soon, with much of life ahead of me.