Detoxing at Home is a Lonely Job

You have no one to play with. Ex-wives don't return calls. Current, so called, girlfriends don't want to listen. Delivery doesn't understand your hours. Cable TV sucks. Must I go on?

Does it sound like I'm bitching? Umm...Yah!

I am. Wait, let me look down first; yes I still have a penis.

BTW, I sat through all of CBS's Sea Change by author Jesse Stone. I see (no pun intended) a lot of him in me. It was hard to watch, but a sat through it. It's a good story.

Without Wax,

P.S. I'll let you know when I've started my sober run.

-=-

First of all, drunks need to crawl on the floor with a flashlight to find software to re-install. Why? I don't know.

My Brother

I wish he knew what it really meant to be sober, and honest. He's been calling me and saying that he loves me. It's only recently that he's been saying these things. It' also the first time that he's fallen in love with a woman.

I just listened to him dis me for 30 minutes as he accidentally clicked on his cell phone. It's strange to hear him change my mind about how he manipuliates people, how he changed his new girlfriend's mind. Listening to how he did this over the phone made me convinced that he hasn't changed in his method of changing people's minds.

He's a distaster.

Without Wax,

The Hardest Part of Staying Sober!

Moving on from June W. is the hardest thing to accept. So what if the damage has been admitted, it still doesn’t repair everything. And I still love her; I still have passion for her. 17 years of desire does not disappear easily. I used to sing to her, sometimes over the phone from 1500 miles away, sometimes in person (in Spanish). Neither of us understood the words, but the motions and emotions were obvious. It was sweet.

Sitting in a chair, June sat there like a prisoner accepting the punishment of my voice and body on top of her. She just sat there with a willing smile on her face while I sang to her in broken Spanish…she just loved it. It showed in her smile and smell of her inner juices. I don’t know how or when to brake the prisoner/pleasure barrier, but it really felt right that night. She’s fine, there was no reason to stop. I don’t remember what happened afterwards.

She asked me later to do it again. I couldn’t, because I couldn’t duplicate the same emotional explosion…it was simply a spur of a moment type of thing.

June and I once challenged each other to quit an addiction: hers was smoking, mine alcohol. We wrote little books chronicling our bi-polar failed attempt to become better. She succeeded; I did not. I hold onto these books. I really felt that I could be the sober man for her that she met, not just married, but became the partner in life.

Without Wax,

Fiction It Is!

Since I cannot find a decent reason to stay sober, have almost lost all faith, and felt that truth has not served my quest, I feel that fiction is my only savior. I shall write a story. From now on, I will blog a fictional story; not in this blog, but in the next.

This blog is still a true story.

I’ll link to this blog with a new blog.

Without Wax,

NCIS Explains Women

She fell for his plumbing skills. If you’ve seen this latest episode, you’ll notice she suspected his intentions weren’t true, until he revealed the real damage that he repaired; it was extensive. She melted in his arms.

I felt this way about June W. and her house when I moved in. I did everything I could do to repair it, including learning plumbing skills on my own. Unlike the fiction of NCIS, it wasn’t enough for her to understand how deeply I cared for her.

I remember a time in South Padre Island, where we first vacationed, when she bought me a T-Shirt together with a similar plumber imprint as the one above.

The point is that she asked me to do things I was not qualified for; but I did them because I thought it would show how much I loved her. I was only qualified as a Software Engineer. Yet after all I learned to maintain her house, it still was never enough. So, she divorced me.

Oh, and that I was a total alcoholic.

Some regrets can never be forgotten, neither hers nor mine.


Without Wax,