Damn You, Five Dollar Greek Wine
My hands carry the aromas of aftershave and billiard chalk.
I spent the whole afternoon at the pool hall that I’ve been frequenting for almost four years now. Today was the first time that I had ever gone by myself, in the daytime. And the last time I had been there had to have been late last year. So I guess you can say that I haven’t frequented the pool hall all that much lately. I was the only person there today, other than the barkeep. Twenty tables, all dark except for mine. It was rather peaceful, that is, if you exclude my occasional swearing when I put too much juice on a long shot to a corner pocket. Gradually, my consistency is coming back as strong as it was long ago. Usually in short spurts; five, six shots in a row, then two or three misses. I have a short temper when I mess up a shot. There were a couple of times that I got so pissed that I hit the cue ball with so much force, it bounced off of the table. Other than my consistency, I also need to improve my, say, mood management at the table.
After the pool hall, I stopped at a specialty liquor store on the way back home for a bottle of sangria. This place has to have around a thousand different varieties of wine, yet I couldn’t find a single bottle of sangria in the whole section. So I bought two bottles of Greek wine. One of the cheaper bottles and a costlier upper shelf variety. When I returned home, I sat outside and poured myself a glass of the cheaper, five dollar bottle. Upon tasting it, I should’ve opted for a gallon of mineral spirits instead. So much for the five thousand year-old Greek winemaking tradition.
I’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours now, and I intend to finally put the finishing touches on some writing that I’ve been working on. Even if the wine is blah, the writing must go on.