What's a bad ass to do?

 Simon couldn't help but wonder what Steve and Dan were doing right now(of course, when he tried to confront Steve no one was home). It made him a little nauseous. Of course, he felt he was in a slow grind as of late, living in his brother's basement, but at least he had his own bathroom. Funny, how the small things made him happy now.

Still, there were AA meetings to get to and he was now washing dishes at the downtown diner. God help him if they ever made him a waiter. He hated waiting on people. It would be beneath him. Of course, the old lady there said he was the worst dishwasher she'd ever seen. Naturally, it hurt his feelings, but he was sticking with it because his brother said he needed to stay focused.

He was too tired to do anything these days. He didn't even like coming upstairs to have breakfast with his brother's family. Naturally, they made him stay active and he didn't drive. Most days he walked to work for the lunch run. On the weekends he was there for breakfast, too.

It felt as if he was on some sort of work-release program without an ankle bracelet, but he knew his brother kept track of him. The time he went to the pool hall accidentally his brother text him right away asking what he was doing.

And of course, Steve hadn't text at all. This hurt the most. How could he not? Simon sometimes texted him a novel. First, there were long drawn-out paragraphs about how he missed him. How he wanted them to get back together.

But then he realized they'd never done anything to make it a full-blown romance. Steve was like living with a turtle who stayed in his shell. It was impossible to get him to let his guard down. Maybe Simon dreamed up more than there actually was, but still he thought Steve would be there for him. NO MATTER WHAT.

It felt as if life was passing him by. He was not good with time. He was wasteful and it horrified him that he'd squandered so much of it. Maybe he was just lost even in his own space.

He listened to old men talk at the AA meetings about how much they'd missed out on their kids growing up because of alcohol. Now they had grandchildren and their sons and daughters didn't want their children around them. It was all so sad, that he was sure his own brother didn't want him around his boys. 

Why was he this way? Was he born this way? 

Sure he'd been to all sorts of counseling through the years, but he wasn't sure he'd listened. He hadn't felt the need for goals. He hadn't felt like keeping a gratitude diary. But now he had one, and he couldn't even write in it properly. 

Instead, he felt like tearing it up. If only he could really sleep, he wasn't sure he'd want to wake up.