Never coming home

Lately, I've been feeling like I should just leave New Jersey, and do it for good. Maybe it's a pre-mid-life crisis of sorts, and although I know that most people feel this way at one point in their lives or another, I can't help it.

Some of those old ghosts (women, of course) have stepped back into my life, and set me back about five years in both where I feel my life's at and how I've been dealing with it- namely, drinking too much and doing the stupid things associated with that, like putting myself at risk in a few ways.

A few months ago, I cam to the conclusion that for a long time I've been something of a binge drinker, a thinly-veiled, barely controlled functioning alcoholic one step from the edge. I've seen what the cruel end is for that type of person, and it comes in the form of lonely nights at local dives, living an agonizingly unfulfilled life. It isn't where I want to be.

Like so many other cluster fucks over the years, boxing (along with that "career" thing) is saving my ass. I take this sport so seriously that even though I"m not competing, I spend the weekends sober lately because I know I'm going to the gym in the morning, and going hungover isn't an option at this severely less-manly stage in my life.

But it's more than that; it's the beauty that comes with knowing that I can do things that a lot of men can't dream of, and it's the solemn (ok, loud and arrogant) pride that I take in knowing that at 26, I'm in better shape than I was at 20. So I put myself through the murderous workouts and come out a better man and a stronger fighter at the end.

But still, even though I'm getting professional instruction for peanuts, and I won another award for my writing, I still get that nagging feeling, that, "What the fuck am I sitting here for?"

I've got a strong attraction to the West Coast, and I have for some time, mostly since a woman I once loved ran out there, but she's not there any more and that's part of the reason I'd like to go there myself.

In this damned state, there's so many ghosts around here for me. They're all those women I used to know, man, I can't get away, and I've been all over this damned state and from the Delaware River to the Garden State Parkway to the streets of New York City, all these places remind me of someone.

It's never the same person, but it's always something sad, some moment in some relationship that I wish I still had, some girl that I wish I still loved.

And then I see California like it's some gleaming city, some shiny haven from all my troubles where the winter never comes and your woman doesn't leave you. I know better than to think that any of that is true... but maybe it's that idealized version I need most right now.

And in the end, I might not end up in the Golden State... after all, the last thing I need is more fake ass platinum blondes to give me headaches. But it'll be somewhere warm- some lush island that lies rises out of an oil spill of teal water, or some small house overlooking some bay. The names aren't important. They all sound the same anyway.

But it'll be somwhere where I can take a charter boat out any time I want and fish for all the sea monsters that Hemingway wrote about, and where I can walk down the street and into a throbbing warehouse and hear the rythmic thuds of the speed bags and that lovely "Pop-pop-bang!" that accompanies a nice combination.

And- most importantly- no woman will ever bother me, and nary a memory will form in my head that doesn't look exactly like what I want it to.