I’m sure I’ve settled for the rain before; and I’m sure I’ve mastered crying. I’m sure there is another slug of bourbon in the bottle.

But then, what’s to say of breakfast, most important? Two-year-old gin and uncooked pasta; the ice I’ll gnaw when liquor drains. I don’t have the happiness to go shopping anyway.

On the television sits a giggling Ellen. She laughs that I may laugh, but it’s never working. Like the alcohol and pasta before her, she is impotent. I don’t blame her—but I envy her the same.

My pants are crumpled on the floor, matted with mud, beside the garbage that never went out, next to the broken lamp. I remember throwing them—the pants, that is. And maybe the lamp, too.

Mom calls, something about forgetting a birthday and a bill I never paid. Maybe it was my own.

I turned 30 this year. I think.

I owe more than I can count.