Corkscrew

There's something about it. There's something about this.

I get home from work. I have a glass of wine.

I have another glass of wine.

I have another glass of wine.

I open a new bottle. I use the corkscrew to open a new bottle.

I stab the motherfucking corkscrew into my hand.

I stab the motherfucking corkscrew into my hand again.

I have another glass of wine.

I write you a letter.

Dear You, says the letter. I'm writing to you again. I'm thinking about you and writing to you again, you. I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about giving up drinking.

Tomorrow, I write, tomorrow tomorrow I just might give up wine and give up wine and writing to you.

The corkscrew has a permanent stain on the tip. I have tried to wash it.

I wake up the next day, and I go to work.

And then, it happens and I write you a letter.

Dear You, it says, how's it been going lately? Have you found a new couch? Have you made peace with the old couch instead? Are you still sitting on couches, or have you decided to remove all furniture from your house, and instead sit on thick rugs and pillows? Do you vacuum often, so that the thick rugs are not messy? Have you seen that movie I mentioned a couple of letters ago? It was a good movie, and I think you—sitting on a thick rug or pillow in front of that small tv—would really like it.

I go to sleep on the floor. I wake up the next day. I go to work. I get home. I don't open a bottle of wine. I just stab my hand with the corkscrew. I write you a letter.

I throw the letter away.

I don't blog.

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Theme/motif: corkscrew causes pain, writing ability.

This is part of a project. For more info, go here.

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I'm in the new Lamination Colony. I wrote about Russell Edson. I made a video for it. Name that tune.

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This post is dedicated to hand wounds.