Sometimes I wonder whether the happier posts on S.P. don't have a touch of smugness about them. Like I have discovered the secret place where the jewels of life hang from abundant trees, or something, and I'm wearing them like a blogging peacock. (And how's that for a jumble of images?)
Well, it's a confidence trick really. I'm trying to talk my way to happiness most of the time. I was having a good day yesterday, but not long after I posted about feeling blessed and emotionally secure I lost my sense of both and became sullen and annoyed waiting for a phone call that finally arrived three hours later than expected. I have a resentful voice permanently whispering in my ear that drunkenness is good, marijuana conducive to clear thought and insight, masturbation healthy, bitterness the philosopher's familiar, destruction the pastime of kings. That voice shouts over the other, happier voice: who are you trying to fool?
I'm going to wait until I get married before I have sex again? Out of choice? I'm more likely to find a polka dot sun shining down in one direct beam of light on a winning lottery ticket when I step outside my door this afternoon.
Why should I try to rid myself of every defining characteristic of the person I used to be, whether that bloke was real or a creation of my own mind? Drunken stoner egomaniac poet Bruce may have been a useless c**t, but he stood by me when everybody else vanished like the morning mist.