I'm standing outside a reopened restaurant, waiting for an once mighty sandwich that i fear now is only an over priced shell of it's former glory. My conversation is with a guy from Boston about a football game that also didn't end well upon revisiting it. I'm actively breaking the law as I stand on the streets of Seattle drinking a beer.
Who have I become?
where are the insightful tales of wine consumption full of my opinions and tasting notes. a refined pompous alcoholic is how i once summed up my writing style. sometimes incoherent blabber, often times poorly spelled and questionable grammar but always lucidly edgy, sprinkled with tidbits of information. Drunk on wine I remained functional. Now, I hardly write. It's been since last summer that I penned my last confession.
Tonight as I await my dinner I live in the past, not caring as I drink my beer.
gone is the forward motion of my story. Gone is the quest to find pleasant new tastes. GONE is my interest of how things should be, I now talk of how they once were. How things use to be better. I settle for the reliable staleness of a Rainier in a tall can.
I look like a hipster city dweller. I sound like a grumpy old man. I've lost my taste for taste, instead relying on the feel of seeming ironic. Grabbing my sandwich and finishing my beer I walk towards home, it is time for a long look in the mirror.
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