Oh, it was an isolated summer night, isolated in the sense that it needed to be contained, but not in standard dimensions. No. This was an evening of rudimentary investigation into human gibberish and soulful wankerin’. I stood shirtless for hours standing at the open window, consuming the cheap moment with cheaper beer. In brief intervals, a tepid wind underscored the cup of my nipples, caressing the bottom speckles of the pink protuberances. That was white man sex, that was a white man enthralled with nature’s orgy, placed as an observer, tugging at loose ends in the corner of the room screaming to the other participants, “CHRIST! Give me a moment to finish up, would ya?” As I parted ways with the voyeur-self, it occurred to me that this was preordained. In the sex of adolescence, I masturbated the definition of being, meeting with a guidance counselor. She had moody chestnut eyes that captured the room with black & white photographs. After a failed suicide attempt she was my best friend. I eventually abandoned her guidance after she handed me a worksheet with the instructions of creating a budget for my adult self. I did what was expected, or so I thought. She scanned my chart with those chestnut circles and placed it on the table, she then pushed it toward me, “you didn’t budget for entertainment.” She said. Of course, that goofy fat child of my younger years was standing at the window drinking cheap beer. He was the observer fossilizing the darkened streets with his prejudices and hum-drum-cascades of dirty needles and herpes. Should I have expected more? “Christ…give me a moment to finish up, would ya….” What are the people doing? I live close enough to bars to watch the glorified escapists stumble home in the wee hours of debauchery. Amateurs, some of them, veterans the rest. There’s no in-between when it comes to escaping. If there is it’s called Stuck-In-The-Middle the very laws of time reject that style of anchoring. The amateurs are happy, there’s a hop to their stumble. They scream profanities, laugh and scuttle. They go home, order pizza and smoke bud until their gluttonous appetite is full and slumber is all that’s left to enlighten the soul. The veteran, however, walks with a heavy stride, they smoke cigarettes and watch the sidewalk pass below their slow steps. They go home, undress, masturbate, put their clothes back on and sit on a chair and stare at the walls until the walls bleed. In some standard definition of “enjoyment” they find meaning to this sequence. Or else it wouldn’t be their standard weekend night. But depression is like a chewable vitamin, we swallow it to progress and deal with the chalky aftertaste that refuses death at the hands of liquid assistance. Oh. Younger child…please understand…I’m not your father. That boy seeking guidance is now a man lost in assurance, assured that what ails the wandering veteran is the ache in their heel that would cease if they could learn to lift their foot as they walked. “christ. give. me. a. moment to finish up….would…ya…” God bless the amateur who responds with, ok.