Wine Bought Angry

There are days at my employer when I allow myself to be so depressed that not even working on the five aviation museum-related tasks I can do behind my counter desk seduce me into productive action.

What are the five aviation museum-related tasks?
1. identifying and cataloging a huge array of negatives of airplane pictures arranged in clear plastic negative storage pages in a hodge-podge of 3-ring binders.
2. Correspondence with enthusiasts and friends via email.
3. Culling articles from aviation magazines to be sorted and filed at the home-based aviation museum formerly located for eight years at Abraham Lincoln Capital Airport.
4. Posting and monitoring traffic to the AeroKLn0ow Museum Facebook page.
5. Posting (rarely, sorry to say) updates at the AeroKnow Museum WordPress blogs. Why? Too depressing to focus on the shame I feel from my incapacity to better steer a course to success.

I understand readers don’t care much about aviation and/or aviation history, but I share that setting, where I spend from noon to 5:00 pm, Tuesdays through Fridays, to show that I’m not making this up. The circumstance is real.

As said a few months ago here at H&Q, the circumstance is also DIRE because any day I come to work I face the possibility that I could be told it is my last day of employment with the establishment because the building has been purchased, and my employer will never resume business elsewhere.

As I left for home last March 29th, I was angry over how testy the week had been. Up to Friday late, I had kept a level head and a noble outlook, despite the nearly unceasing depression. I had been taking grocery store-bought “sleep aids” pills believing that as long as I bought what Hy-Vee Supermarket was selling to suffocate my conscious mind, I couldn’t tread on thin ice.: they couldn’t do me any harm. I hadn’t taken any probably 4 of the past few weeks anyway. My previous holy vow to drink wine only to celebrate something meant nothing on the 29th. I could not bear the burden of sustaining consciousness until 10:00 when I could justify taking maybe four “sleep aids” instead of the usual one or two. I knew the desired the “sure bet for forced death” lasting probably six or seven straight hours was possible only with wine. So I stopped at County Market (Supermarket) and bought another gallon of Carlo Rossi Burgundy.

It’s important for readers to understand that during the hours before I bought the Burg’ I was not angry at any BODY/PERSON: not my employer, not a couple of the “bent whistles” that behave like magpies during weekly model club meetings, no customers I assisted at employer, no poet friends, no neighbors . . . l. . I hadn’t been trapped behind a lunkhead driving 24 mph on a 30 mph street. If I had had a pistol in my pocket (which I never do) I would not have opened fire on unattended dogs in a park. I was just sad:: sad about being sad and sad about being angry. That’s why I allowed myself (nobody was holding a gun to my head) to buy the wine.

Soon after arriving home I ate my usual dinner – a can of soup for $1.52 or a can of chili ($1.33) and over the course those 90 minutes also listening to a local talk radio program, drank an unhurried almost three pints of de wine before falling asleep, and I slept okay.

Didn’t touch the wine on Saturday or Sunday, resumed, moderately on Monday in anticipation of another day in the land I call Fool’s Paradise. The bottle was clean empty when I went to sleep Thursday night.

Thanks for reading this post.
===============================================
Live long . . . . . . . . . . and proper.

Read Full Post »