Sunday Morning Coming Down...

"All that booze is what drives you crazy," Lindsay always said, but look at me now.  It is 5:15 in the morning, I haven't slept yet and there they are. I can hear them. I haven't touched a glass in the better part of a week and I can hear people.  The people are real.  I'm not that crazy but  what they are saying is not as centered around me as I  believe it to be. I know that much.  but the whole thing carries out just the same.
  I lay in bed, failing pathetically at falling asleep, and I could hear people talking downstairs and in the next apartment talking. I kept trying to focus on blocking them out. I focus on Marshall's breathing as he is laying at the foot of the bed. I'm doing a damn good job of it to, listening to the ins and outs of his dog breaths. Until I can swear I heard my name cross the lips of someone downstairs. I try to tune into the conversation better. "Rick is slipping away ever since Lindsay left him." a woman's voice says. A man responds but all i can make out is "Rick" "piece" and "better off".I can only assume I'm a piece of shit and she's better off. I  roll over closer to the wall to see if i hear them better. Marshall wakes up bites my shin and goes back to sleep. I can hear the voices again. "Well he never could hold down a job. Fucking christ he has to be in his thirties and he was what? Working at Wal-mart as a cart boy, last i heard." the man said. Fuck him! Fuck that guy! I thought to myself, I bet he has some nice job and actually enjoys going to work and even does it sober on occasion, fuck him. "Well I'm not sure but I used to here him have sex with Lindsay and I believe some other women. And I've faked it before, so I know that those women were acting. I mean come on who could come from being poked with his tiny cock." "I don't know what they were thinking fucking a loser like him. a fat drunk thirtysomething who acts like he's a teenager with a 24 hour mini erection who reeks of booze and shit."  I can't believe what I was hearing and I knew I couldn't. "Its just the depression getting to ya mixed with the lack of booze, Rick your hearing things." I said aloud but to myself.  I roll back over again trying to fall asleep again trying to ignore my misheard insults.  They continued on and in my head all I heard was that I am a failure with a small prick and a drinking problem.
  I heard the downstairs door open and then slam shut seconds later. They're gone. Finally I can try to manifest whatever relief I can. I start to thear the voices again and this time I am not sure if they were still downstairs or if I have finally fallen off of my rocker. I try to block them out but I can still hear them. This time they are carrying on about my apartment and how they'd evict me if they could. I climb out of bed and go to the fridge. I open the door to find the only 2 liquids i have in there are about 2 shots of vodka and an old can of diet soda.  I grab the soda and leave the vodka.  I get back to my bedroom and now Marshall is awake standing on top of my pillows with his dirty paws and his cock soiling where i lay my head. "Shoo, Shithead get off my pillows!" He doesn't listen and just continues to look at me. "What are you gonna start talking now too? Get off the fucking bed." I go to grab him by the scruff of his neck. He ducks, I miss, punching the wall instead and he jumps off the bed. I climb back into bed and set the soda on the windowpane. Silence at last. I don't hear anything other then the cars driving past on the freeway and the love sounds of Marshall self fellating himself on the floor. I  am managing to enter the border of sleep when I hear them again. "He claims to be a writer. He always seemed, I don't know, ignorant, to me I guess."  "With the future he has ahead of him, he could become a vegetable and nothing would change much" "Oh come on I mean he's not retarded, I dont think. He has that going for him" "He drank himself retarded years ago" I'll show them. I get back up and go grab the vodka. Marshall walks out into the kitchen to see me. He has this confused little look on his puppy face. I tilt back the bottle and empty it into my mouth. The burn feels great like the first orgasm after not being fucked in weeks. I go back to my room and head over to the radio. I turn it on and sort through the stations. I land on a country station doing a tribute to Johnny Cash. I decide that that should do the trick. I turn it up to a medium volume, walk over to grab the soda, polish off the can and lay in bed.
 
  Three songs pass as I lay there slowly but surely getting closer to that elusive state. And as I start to drift off, all I can hear is a steady deep voice sing:

                On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
                I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
                'Cause there's something in a Sunday
                That makes a body feel alone.
                And there's nothing short a' dying
                That's half as lonesome as the sound
                Of the sleeping city sidewalk
                And Sunday morning coming down...........