The Old Blog in the Desert

I might be what the world calls a fucking drunk, but at least I know one thing—I would fucking die before I let my dog starve. He’s the only creature in this godforsaken universe who gives a shit about me.

I would rather rot in a ditch than see him go without. You don’t like that? Screw you. He loves me without conditions, without any of the bullshit humans put on love.

Can’t say the same for these assholes at the bar, sitting next to me, pretending like we’re all in this together in the same sinking ship. We ain’t.

“Yeah, fuckin’ right. You think you’re better ‘cause your shirt’s clean and you’ve got your mortgage? You’re as much of a walking corpse as I am, the only difference is I know it and you don’t.”

Another shot goes down, burning like fire, but it’s the only warmth I’ve felt in days. The bartender gives me that look—she knows the drill. Just keep pouring. I’ll stop when I’m dead or broke, whichever comes first. I light a cigarette and drag it deep, watching the smoke curl up like it’s trying to escape this shithole before it all goes up in flames. Too bad it’s stuck here with the rest of us.

A guy’s sitting next to me, yapping about his miserable life. His job, his wife, his kids. Like, I give a fuck. As if I’m supposed to feel sorry for him because he didn’t get the promotion. Guess what, pal? Nobody gives a shit. I nod and pretend to listen, but inside, I’m seething. I want to slam his face into the bar until he shuts the fuck up.

“Go home to your suburban hell, where your wife’s probably screwing the neighbor, and your kid’s already learning how to be more of a disappointment than you are. And here you are, thinking I’m the fuck-up. Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

I glance at my glass. Empty again. Of course, it is. Story of my life—empty. I motion for another, and the bartender is already moving. She doesn’t ask questions. She has seen enough of my kind to know we’re beyond help. Just keep the alcohol coming, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll make it through the night without doing something stupid.

But fuck that. I have done stupid. I have lived it. Hell, I invented it. So, you think you hit rock bottom? I am deep below the surface, encased in solid rock, and my faithful dog is the only thing keeping me from succumbing. That’s right. The only thing left that is real in this world is a damn dog. He’s waiting for me at home, probably wondering where I am and when I’ll come stumbling through the door, reeking of stale beer and bad decisions.

“At least he doesn’t judge me. At least he’s not full of shit like every person I’ve ever met. People? They take what they can get from you and leave you with nothing. Your dog? He sticks around, no matter how far you fall.”

I take another drink, feeling the whiskey sink in, dulling the edges of everything, making it easier to breathe, to exist. The guy by me is still rambling, trying to make his problems my problems, but I’m not listening. I don’t care. I’ve never cared. The world can burn for all I give a shit. I’ve got enough of my hell to deal with.

“And where the hell is God in all this? Up there, laughing his ass off while I scrape the bottom of the barrel. Or maybe he’s just ignoring me like everyone else. Either way, screw him. I don’t need a savior. I need a drink.”

I down what’s left in the glass and shove it back toward the bartender. She fills it without a word, her eyes glazed over like she’s watched a thousand guys just like me, and she’s probably right. The bar’s full of guys just like me—washed up, broken, bleeding out on the inside, but still too stupid to call it quits.

I glance at the clock. It’s late, or maybe it’s early. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My dog’s probably curled up by the door, waiting for me, still loyal even though I’m a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve it. I should go home, and feed it–but I’m stuck here, drinking myself into oblivion because it’s easier than facing the wreckage I’ve made of my life.

“I should’ve died long ago, turned to dust, but the world’s not that merciful. It keeps you around just to see how much more it can fuck with you.”

The guy by me stands up and pats me on the back like we’re buddies. I shrug him off, and he stumbles out into the night, back to his pathetic life. I stay planted on the barstool, staring at the empty glass in front of me, thinking about my dog, the only soul on this planet that hasn’t given up on me.

“He deserves better. I should be better. But who the hell am I kidding? I’ll keep feeding him and going through the motions, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

I throw back one last shot, slam the glass on the bar, and stagger to my feet. The bartender watches me with a tired look as if she knows how this will end. And maybe she has. But I’m standing, barely, and that’s more than I can say for most people.

I head for the door, lighting another cigarette, the night air slapping me in the face like a reminder that I’m still alive. Barely.

“Fuck it, fuck them and fuck me, I’ve got a dog to feed.”