I Will Drink My Scotch And Fail At Love And Lie On My Couch In Darkness

I will come home from work, remove my shoes then socks, then throw my keys “somewhere” in hopes of losing them and never leaving my condominium again. I will imagine the world-at-large as a prison, and my condominium as the sole small courtyard on which a free man such as myself may walk in tight circles, metaphorically, of course; for I am now at my drinking station — an IKEA “FÖRHÖJA” kitchen cart rendered from fallen birch, somewhere, as I imagine, in a ravaged forest in Sweden — observing Lagavulin 16-year single malt Islay Scotch finding the inner contour of a Riedel snifter, its caramel-y brown notes smiling in the diminishing rays of a slanted sun grasping the walls downward as daylight ends.

I will check my phone for a text, only to see the conventional array of apps, as tiny tumors, or ennui pills. I will turn my head towards the wall hosting that last shard of daylight, and imagine your fingers — the same ones I carried, always want to, in my hands as some small animal — not typing a non-existent text, and how not doing something can be so meaningful. How dense absence can be felt. Your fingers are ten maniacs doing everything but texting me. I will stare at my phone, its blue glow in competition with the yellow day that dies a little each time the earth clicks away from the sun as some shunned cosmic lover.

I will check for everything, myself my own private investigator searching for clues on how I came to feel this way, which you critiqued was “emo,” a word whose mere vernacular could not stand the fight against the painted lips through which such a word came. “Emo,” I say, to the tiny counter-clockwise whirlpool of Lagavulin inside a snifter whose fingerprints may be the only proof I am here. I will check my Twitter for retweets, my Facebook for likes, my blog for reblogs, various blogs for comments, or the liking of comments. I will check my email, my phone, my prostate, but never my mirror. I will not simply swallow my scotch, but let it waterfall around both sides of my tongue, into the moat of my lower jaw, whose swollen vessels are half-anesthetized by an island far away. I will check my phone one more time, and consider it as a single object in space, a dense population of atoms whose potential velocity towards the floor would not be appreciated the next morning.

I will lie on my couch as an overgrown excised abortion, barely tepid, some endangered species of hairless monkey seeking a return to the amazon of your hair, whose natural color is still under debate — and under debate is fine, for now, but under covers, in bed, is where my limbs may find their phantom ones lost so long ago in you. And yes this is emo. I will play Philip Glass’s solo piano on loop, such that the repetitive tracks and their repetitive notes collapse linear time into a large wobbly circle, which you comment makes you dizzy, there in bed, and I would twist your Joan of Arc flamed red hair into a bun around my fist from behind your head as you concede, finally, with a mouth pulled open that it was dyed. And that night messengers would burn.

I will see you lying on the floor in your room, in a dark blue dress wearing heels for no reason, your hair both propped and flattened by the hardwood floors as a kind of sideways model who didn’t feel like standing any longer. This beautiful city will offer its pinkish late afternoon light through three bay windows, and I will be inexplicably Monk happy you are simply “there,” that you exist so far, and so near, as distance — consumed by demarcations, angry black lines — is petty; though when collapsed by a kiss, deserves an elegy. This is where you stand up and let the flame lower onto your shoulders, bangs perhaps shielding your own thoughts. You can continue to dye and I may die. May this be our agreement. May I craft such scenes in my head, on my $700 dollar somewhat-douchey black probably faux-leather couch, the cold glow of my phone before it goes to sleep impersonating the moon in its loyal conveyance of a brighter star. TC mark

More From Thought Catalog

  • Anonymous

    you will LIE on your couch, Jimmy

    Lie

    • Anonymous

      i love you jimmy chen

      • http://jimmychenchen.com/ Jimmy Chen

        editor made corrections, not me, but thanks

      • LOVER

        hey you sexy bitch, jimmy chen

  • http://summerslowrunner.wordpress.com/ Summer

    I love everything about this.

  • Sdfjksdlj

    this is going to be me in like two years

  • Mandatory

    knockoff or spoof?

    • http://jimmychenchen.com/ Jimmy Chen

      perhaps a solemn homage to the funner times experienced by the original author?

  • http://itellstories.org Sameer Vasta

    Yup, that would be me.

  • http://itellstories.org Sameer Vasta

    Yup, that would be me.

  • Guest

    “I will lie on my couch as an overgrown excised abortion, barely tepid, some endangered species of hairless monkey seeking a return to the amazon of your hair, whose natural color is still under debate”

    • http://jimmychenchen.com/ Jimmy Chen

      idk, pic seems nerdy

  • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1363230138 Michael Koh

    anything JC does is bomb

  • http://twitter.com/nuclearcabbage Nive

    Oh Jimmy, you make my heart Chen.

  • regurgitate

    I will lie on my couch and bitch and moan.  Failing at love = First World Problems

    • http://jimmychenchen.com/ Jimmy Chen

      internet indignation = first world problems

      • regurgitate

        Who’s feeling indignant?  Tao lin

    • Guest

      Love is actually one of the very few problems that is experienced by people of the first world that is not a ‘first world problem’. It’s universal and therefore universally painful. It’s kind of just a ‘problem’, y’know?

  • http://mrianmbelcurry.tumblr.com/ Mr. Ian M. Belcurry

    islay scotch is really good. phone glow is awesome in piece

  • http://twitter.com/Erikhaspresence Erik Stinson

    :-)

  • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=612928768 Samie Rose

    Get a pet, love.

    • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=612928768 Samie Rose

      Just don’t kill it.

  • kaylee

    I really like the last paragraph.
    Also Philip Glass is so good, especially his 3rd string quartet.

  • http://www.badbadbad.net jesusangelgarcia

    One is never alone (nor failed at love) with Lagavulin in hand, Mr. Chen.

  • Filmfaerie

    The Story of My Life, with Glenmorangie, Coltrane, sans facebook.

    Sorry, but it is lovely melancholy.

    • http://jimmychenchen.com/ Jimmy Chen

      i also love glenmorangie’s original 10-year, before they started all the flavored cask stuff. you and me man, let’s do ‘african flowers’ by ellington on loop….

  • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000308955280 Erin Elizabeth

    u coo 2

  • Guest

    When did Thought Catalog become live journal?
    ” I will check my phone one more time, and consider it as a single object
    in space, a dense population of atoms whose potential velocity towards
    the floor would not be appreciated the next morning.”
    This is a joke right… right?

    • Guest

      first of all, TC has never been above emotive, personal revelation. second, that’s a perfectly fine sentence.

      • Slainbyte

        They usually stay away from overwrought hyperbole though.
        For example:

        “I will lie on my couch as an overgrown excised abortion, barely tepid,
        some endangered species of hairless monkey seeking a return to the
        amazon of your hair, whose natural color is still under debate — and
        under debate is fine, for now, but under covers, in bed, is where my
        limbs may find their phantom ones lost so long ago in you.”

        This just seems like  something I would have written in junior high…. on live journal. Heavy on simile and metaphor, light on actual thought.

      • Slainbyte

        They usually stay away from overwrought hyperbole though.
        For example:

        “I will lie on my couch as an overgrown excised abortion, barely tepid,
        some endangered species of hairless monkey seeking a return to the
        amazon of your hair, whose natural color is still under debate — and
        under debate is fine, for now, but under covers, in bed, is where my
        limbs may find their phantom ones lost so long ago in you.”

        This just seems like  something I would have written in junior high…. on live journal. Heavy on simile and metaphor, light on actual thought.

      • devin

        damn you were smart as fuck in junior high.

      • gus

        PWHAHAHAHAHAHA spat my drink out over this

      • gus

        hahahah sorry but the idea of you nodding along to thoughtcatalog posts.. until now

      • Slainbyte

        They usually stay away from overwrought hyperbole though.
        For example:

        “I will lie on my couch as an overgrown excised abortion, barely tepid,
        some endangered species of hairless monkey seeking a return to the
        amazon of your hair, whose natural color is still under debate — and
        under debate is fine, for now, but under covers, in bed, is where my
        limbs may find their phantom ones lost so long ago in you.”

        This just seems like  something I would have written in junior high…. on live journal. Heavy on simile and metaphor, light on actual thought.

  • http://twitter.com/kaimcn Kai

    I need a couch to lie on in darkness, the love seat of sitting in melancholy isn’t cutting it.

  • LDN

    it makes me sad that you’re sad :(

  • http://madisonlangston.blogspot.com/ Madison Langston

    this is nice 

  • http://madisonlangston.blogspot.com/ Madison Langston

    esp the monk like happy

  • http://twitter.com/astrangersashes Sandi Biltoo

    I have to confess that I am fucking over-the-edge in love with your way with words.

  • Nohora Galan

    ¡Qué bonito! No sé por qué no lo había leído antes…me gusta como escribes Jimmy Chen; volveré una y otra vez sobre tus escritos

blog comments powered by Disqus