Stillshot

Sitting in front of me, I see a vision of a vision that is all too real and all too realistic. The vision dictates that I take a picture (even though I have ZERO camera credibility) of what is directly in front of me, from this broken-ass, still unfamiliar and uncomfortable couch that was a hand-me-away due to the flood destroying my previous familiar and comfortable couch that I got my first blowjob on:
From left to right, a four-drawer dresser that has old ticket stubs, deodarant, cologne, old eyeglasses from freshman year of college, a painting done by my brother and a special-edition box set of Born to Run; a three -lightbulb lamp that never worked from the time I bought it that now is used as a makeshift hat/tie rack; my "entertainment center," which consists of a 23-inch TV and a six-year old DVD player given to me by my mother on my twenty-second birthday; a DVD tower that holds approximately 45 DVDs; a laundry basket that is aching to be emptied; the ajoining wall that supports a poster of the Union Jack.
Not exactly something I wanted to shoot for my girlfriend. But it is what it is. Nevermind that I got up and cut the grass, showered, had lunch with M and D, went to a meeting at work (on my day off), came home, finally had a cigarette, shot some baskets for fifteen minutes, sipped on some water, masterbated, surfed the Internet, ate a bologna sandwich, talked to D, talked to him, he couldn't hear me because he is not-so-gradually going deaf, bought a six-pack, drank it in two hours, during which I failed to get past the third world of Super Mario Brothers 3, watched The Birdcage, finished most of it, smoked some marijuana, enjoyed it and wrote this. Nevermind that and then nevermind it some more. What they say is true. So true.
But the walk outside later on that humid night, just outside the garage wasn't so bad, so awkward, as D sits in his car, drunk, listening to the Allman Brothers, tape stops, onto the radio as an oldies station plays something familiar, then ends, then onto the "classic" rock station, where I get called out for not liking George Thoroughgood (I don't, think he sucks), where I'm called crazy, then the song ends and D decides to finally turn off the ignition, grab the remaining bottles from the dwindling 12-pack he stole, in a technical sense, he'll pay it back, sure, and head in for the night, only to hug me and say, "I'm sorry about the way you feel about yourself. I'm gonna tell you something no shrink will be able to tell you. You're a nice person. I love you," he then staggers into the house and I go back down to the basement to feed my cat, smoke a little more marijuana and go to bed.
Tomorrow might be a different picture. And if it is, the one taken tonight, I'll learn to love. But I'll never show it to anybody.