(Sally: I would recommend not reading this, but there is nothing offensive in it…I believe.)
In my younger years, when I was still too young to realize that heartbreak fades, when I thought the scars from my very short list of lost loves would forever be on display to any of my future lovers, I decided to be another 90s kid who put his voice out there by making a magazine; mine was called “The Subterranean.” While the magazine only had one issue (and only about 20 copies of it printed), it was a moment in my life when I was proud of something I had created. Continue reading Broken Hearts and Reincarnation
Here I sit in the Frothy Monkey in the 12 South district of Nashville, just down the street from the restaurant where I arguably spent most of my time during the years I lived in this fantastic city. It was in this coffee shop I sat down and decided that if I was going to make it in this world as a writer I was going to have be dedicated to my craft. I couldn’t continue to find excuses on why I couldn’t write today. I had to find the dedication to take the time to pull out my laptop and type, even if it was only a few words. There were definitely days when I would write 100 words and just be over it, but at least I remained dedicated to the one activity I always cared about.
I used to be able to drink a beer faster than almost anyone else I knew. Actually, I may still be able to. I could pick up your pint of beer, and before you turned around the pint would be gone, leaving you wanting. Nobody ever got too mad at me for stealing their beer–normally they were impressed by how quickly I had made it disappear and would then inquire about how I had learned the skills to achieve such a feat. The truth is, I had learned how to do that because I didn’t want to be rejected by anyone, and (thanks to the groups I found myself hanging out in) I thought if I could drink faster than they could, they would accept me. This desire left me with a gift of being able to impress people at parties with what one of my friends lovingly referred to as “Matt’s Magic Trick.” Continue reading My Struggle With Addiction, Part II
(Sally: This one has some things you may take issue with. I wouldn’t recommend it. Not today anyway.)
Not too long ago a buddy of mine was visiting me in sunny south Florida. Right before he left to make the atrocious 11-hour drive back to Nashville he decided to impart some unsolicited words of wisdom on me. He informed me that the one thing that would “complete” me “as a man” would be a little puppy. To this ridiculous statement (as if I need anything to complete me as a man, I’m pretty darn perfect) I laughed, and told him that would never happen. He attempted to convince of me of his idea for what seemed like way too long to be discussing whether or not I should own a puppy, and when his attempts ended fruitless he started his venture back to Nashville (leaving the better portion of his clothes in my dryer. I hope he doesn’t need those anytime soon). Continue reading Why I Don’t Own Pets (or have children)
(Sally: I think this is actually ok for you to read. You already know about the worst things I talk about in here. I hope you enjoy this one.)
A few nights ago I was talking with my good friend, Carter, on the phone while we were playing backgammon against each other online. This was a throwback to when he and I were roommates in Virgina during our late teens, and then again in our mid-twenties, when we would sit outside on our balcony, smoking cigarettes, drinking beers, and playing backgammon until the sun came up. Then we would walk over to the McDonalds a block away and get breakfast (this was before a McDonalds breakfast would cause me to spend the better portion of my day reading in the bathroom). While we were playing the virtual game the other night, he started reminiscing about the days when we were living lives that were more or less void of any sort of responsibility. Instead they were filled with nights of playing backgammon while sitting at Mike’s Diner with a group of modern day self-prescribed beatniks, drinking coffee and waxing on philosophically about the simple fact that “2 is always less than or equal to 4.”
I opened my eyes and blinked away the light film that covered my pupils every morning. The sunlight exploding through the room blinded me for a minute as my eyes adjusted to the sudden change from darkness to light. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, but the pounding in my temples led me to believe that I was having fun last night.
I sat up in a strange bed—nothing more than a futon on a metal frame only a few inches off the floor—and looked around the room. I was surrounded with white. The curtains, the walls, the carpets, the sheets, the furniture—everything was white, reflecting the early morning sun violently in every direction. The clothes that had been carelessly tossed to the floor at some point last night injected the room with an unexpected splash of color.
I rubbed my temples in a vain attempt to subside the headache that was growing worse by the second and making it hard to see anything in the too-bright colorless room. I took a deep breath, hoping that the taste of day-old beer and stale cigarettes would magically disappear with the fresh air of a new day. Continue reading Prologue to “Diary of an Addict”