Vicodin and Frosted Flakes at four a.m., then a cigarette, bitter against that milk-and-sugar-coated tongue. No pleasure comes for free, except one: the kids silhouetted by early morning sunlight on the porch, playing castle in the voices of knights and damsels and dragons. The euphoria doesn’t help you connect with them though you think it will — they can tell it’s not real and it frightens them. Better the cranky moody daddy than this weird friendly beast, hairy and stinking like the dragons except here in the flesh – you could kill them and they know it. All kids know it and they’re terrified. That’s why they love you: it keeps them safe. Real love will come later when they choose it despite your pathetic humanity and the odor of disappointment and slow decay. So go back to sleep, let them play awhile, alone and peaceful, before you come all needing them. Have yourself a slice of baloney, some sandwich bread, soft and white, not the artistic carbohydrates you admire more than enjoy. Swallow another 7.5/325 with a cold Coke Zero. You spilled some on the counter. Be a good kitty and lick it up. There ya go.