Today would be a great day to take up becoming an alcoholic. I don’t mean to make light of something that is no doubt serious for some people. The day is rain-soaked. The backyard, where Murphy just ran, is becoming a lake. It’s humid and dark and the tap-tap-tap of the rain is putting a sleep over me. I’m listening to haunting music. I’m feeling rather ghoulish hiding inside my quiet apartment.

Meanwhile the rain. I love the sound of the rain. My favorite sex is to the sound of rain. A coffee, my ciggies. It seems like I should have some gin, or some rum, or a Jack Daniels. Something colorful and golden over ice cubes. Except that “neat” always sounded cool, which, as I am made to understand, means no ice.

Writing in the dark, to the sound of the rain, would just go better with a little alcohol. And perhaps it isn’t right, and perhaps it’s out of fashion, but some of my favorite writers were hard drinkers.

But there are probably very many hard drinkers, especially Sunday afternoon hard drinkers, that are not nearly good writers. And as it turns out, I don’t really like alcohol. And I can barely afford the addictions and sins that I already have.

Meanwhile the tap-tap-tap of the rain.

SS