(Parenthetical)

I woke up as Hemingway: at dawn (too early), cat in my face (purring), my back stiff (old man), an aching head (I wondered if my ears were bleeding), and not able to recall the previous twelve hours of my life (enough Jack Daniel's to shock an Old West outlaw).  And it was a story that woke me up, a narrative running through my (aching) head about Emily.

(Those of us who heard Lloyd Bentson's quip to Dan Quayle are doomed to hear it reworked for the rest of our lives, as in:  "I knew [Ernest Hemingway] and you, Sir, are no [Ernest Hemingway]."  Certainly, I am not.)

I came downstairs, microwaved yesterday's remaining coffee, and felt a grating wheeze when I drew a deep breath.  (There were still plenty of cigarettes in the pack in my pocket.  I couldn't be certain, but evidence suggested I'd not smoked that much last night.)  I stood in the backyard, drank my lukewarm coffee (no matter what you do, microwaved coffee always tastes like, well, microwaved coffee), and had a(nother) cigarette.  And this narrative of Emily's was still streaming on in the back of my head.

(Sometimes, somehow, I just 'know' that it's best if I read or do internet research or blog rather than try to write.  [Judging by the date of the previous post, not that often.]  But actual writing is more important, so I shouldn't feel bad about not blogging.  That is, if I were actually writing, I shouldn't.)

While I am (indeed) no Ernest Hemingway, I do (like him) enjoy "the drink."  But this I can't reconcile:  drink+write.  Hangovers are nobody's petrie dish of creativity.  Yet, there seem to be (in my mind, anyway) so many boozy writers (or writing boozers?).   Which brings me to the title point:  (I just can't concentrate.)

(Fortunately--for me, not the reader--blogging requires little concentration.  [Self-indulgent tripe spawned from self-indulgent drinking.]  It's what the internet is for.  Spacebook, Tweeter, Glogspot, selfindulgenttripe-dot-com [look it up]; all these places to say: me, me, me.) (Oh, and p0rn.  If you didn't know, the internet is for p0rn.)

And Emily just pointed out to me that my weekends have become parenthetical.  (Till this point, I'd managed to ignore her.)  "You know," she said, "you haven't been listening to me, lately."  (Hey, I've been busy.)  "And--" Emily started to say.  (I expected her to start listing off my flaws.)  "And we all miss you."  (Don't you pull that with me.  Don't you try to make me feel guilty.)  "Just keep in mind," she said, leaning in closer to whisper, "we don't get to spend a lot of time together.  It's best if we make it quality time."  (Fair enough.  I'd let the entire month of February slip by.)

So (maybe) it can be that the week is (parenthetical, that is).  Sundays are the open parens, and Saturdays are the close (parens).  And what I need to do is make sure the rest is a full sentence (with subject-verb agreement, proper punctuation, and the active voice)--that is, not wake up feeling like Ernest Hemingway.