Ol' Dirty Blue Eyes / KLĒN + SŌBR
He had woken that morning with a head full of good intentions…
Get up; take a shower; finish packing his shit in the apartment he shared with his soon to be ex-wife; and then, with the help of friends, move. Maybe not the most elevated of intentions but taken in the context of a seething alcohol and crack hangover he felt they qualified as ambitious. Now, roughly sixteen hours later, he woke for the second time that day. This time with a bladder full of bad decisions and a head full of broken glass and river mud.
Coming to, is perhaps a better description for how he struggled, pained and despairing, from the day's second slumber. Coming to his senses, Jesus, and a number of terrible realizations. He could feel he was not in his bed but on the couch…no…a couch…a couch not his own. He winced through the agony of opening his eyes. He was not in his home. He was not, he thought with an unnecessary and unearned smugness, technically in a house.
He had a brief flash of the double-wide his favorite Aunt, Uncle and cousins had lived in deep in the Northern California woods; he had loved their home. It was spacious and grand compared to the duplex his mother and he lived in in the Bay Area where he had shared his bedroom with the washer and dryer, or rather, they had shared their room with him.
He came back to himself and his current location; he was in a mobile home; hungover on a rough, musty couch in a stranger's mobile home.