death of a bachelor

It is official and it is sad; I can no longer survive as a bachelor. As my wife is now on vacation, I have taken to excess. I make every effort to get as little sleep as possible, have tossed aside exercise as if it were a the tail of one of the cigars I’ve been smoking now regularly, and have replaced significant portions of my blood with alcohol on a nightly basis.

But even in my unbridled freedom to make poor decisions, I see this cannot be sustained. All I can hope for is to be alive with a mostly functioning liver when she returns and in a few days, when the whites of my eyes are again visible, I can look back fondly on my short-sighted immediate gratification bonanza. I can almost picture my wife riding in on a steed named Ambrosius to rescue me from this bog of eternal stench, or maybe I’m just starting to hallucinate from lack of sleep. God, I love Bowie.

Anyway, I think I came to this realization after eating hot dogs for three days straight. The despair was manifested at its pinnacle, pictured above. It was a double beer-boiled cheesy hot dog platter topped with week-old stir-fried┬ávegetables and all the salsa in the fridge, served with a liter of sangria from a Nalgene. Seriously? Where did this come from? I love to cook but, with no one to cook for, the double garbage plate is what’s for dinner.

I don’t know what happened in the last couple years, but apparently my wife broke or stole something that was necessary for my survival. It seems a very insidious way to hold on to me but all I can do is tip my hat. Well played ma’am, well played.

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