The Obscure

I was sleeping very fitfully when the thunder woke me up. I don't know how one could sleep fitfully with a double dose of sleeping medication in their system, and I don't know how one could be as awake and as lucid as I appear to be right now with that amount of pills running through their blood. Yet, here I am, typing away seemingly pointlessly, seeing as I think that the power is going to go out again soon.
I don't have much to type. I think tomorrow is the anniversary of my uncle's death. No one in the family is taking it well, least of all my father. Then again, he should be the one taking it the worst.

Horseflies have invaded my house. I suppose since the ghost of my uncle is sucking away at the soul of my family, it is only fitting that we should have some physical manifestation sucking away at our blood.
The realization that the anniversary of the death of my namesake is tommorrow has taken it's toll on me. I was trying to figure out why I was feeling so depressed and angry and... forsaken, all at the same time. Now I know.
My uncle used to use a salt-water fishing rod every time we went fishing. It was a very small one, if you actually used it to fish in salt water and you caught a striper or something, you'd be really hard-put to bring that fucker in. But he would go bass fishing and trout fishing in lakes with that thing, and I tell you, if he got a bite, one good yank and the fish was his, no matter how big it was. Lake-fish just don't have the same pull as ocean-fish.
I noticed the other day that his rod was no longer in it's place. It is gone. Gone where? I do not know, and I will not ask.

I wrote about my last experiences with John briefly, soon after the last time I saw him alive. He told me that I looked cool. It was the only thing he said to me. He said, "Is that Johnny?" and my father told him I was, and he looked at me and said, "You look cool."
Fuck me, if he thought I looked cool it was only because I had a hat and sunglasses on to block out the light because my head hurt like a fucking bastard, and I was wearing a leather jacket I think, because whenever I have a bad headache I get really cold.
I remember his funeral. I couldn't look at him, he looked less real then when I saw him on his hospital bed. I had to pop three or four perks just to remain lucid throughout the whole thing, and four or five klonopins to keep myself from shaking out of my chair. My cousin Tom had to drive me to the burial. That was the day I took up smoking. He had a pack of Newports, and I kept asking for them, and he kept giving them. The next day I bought a pack for myself, eventually I switched to Reds, but all that is inconsequential. Where the irony lies is in the fact that I have hurled myself head-first into all of the things that took my beloved uncle's life; and what did it take for me to hurl myself several furlongs into the sea of Self-Destruction by way of Poor Maintanence of the Body? Why my uncle's drowning himself to death in that very sea, of course.
I suppose I am going to visit his grave tomorrow, with or without my family. I don't even know where it is, exactly. But I will find it, and I will say a little prayer for the dead man who could have been a great man, the man who held the bottle for a short while, until the bottle held him; and I will say a little prayer for myself: That I should never be a slave to a substance, and that I will not fear the terror that comes by night, nor the arrow that flies by day.

For those of you sick of hearing about my uncle who died, well, you could've gotten a third of the way through this post and quit reading. For those of you who think I am making a mountain out of a molehill, you can fuck off. You weren't there, you didn't see it. One of the best of us, the best of us, murdered by a drink and a lack of the will to stop the drink from being poured.
Goodnight.