One of those days. A Short.

I hung my head in my head staring down at the ground. It had just been one of those days. I was so exhausted. Not physically. My body was fine. I was just emotionally drained. And talking about emotions was one of those things that I wasn't supposed to do. So I didn't. I didn't tell anyone. After all, who was there to tell. Even though I'd been dating her for 2 years, there were just some things that she didn't understand. Some things that I attempted to explain anecdotally. It just never worked. Maybe I was just an ineffective storyteller. I told stories to detach myself from them. I don't want the pity that people freely give when you tell the stories that I have to tell-- in first person. Telling such stories in first person pulls at peoples' heart strings or reminds them that they should be judgemental or at least helps them feel justified in their passing of judgement. So it's just easier to tell stories as though they are about someone else.

I took a sip of my beer and glanced across the street. I dropped my eyes and stared at my cigarette burning on the saucer. The saucer is my temporary ashtray since I don't smoke. I say I don't smoke because I only smoke on these days. Smoking is my extra vice that I can just throw in whenever needed. I picked up the cigarette and took a long drag. The taste of smoke always brings back memories. Memories of various things. Memories of being in a bar. Smoke filling the room. Karoake on stage. Everyone in the bar knew each other. They all did the same thing every night. This was part of their lives just like the pummeling of my mother was a daily routine for my father. Or rather, just like the pummeling of a mother is the daily routine of some fathers. Remember, I have no stories to tell. No reasons to feel like I do. No reason to have days like this. And still, I tell stories.