After writing the last post, I went to the grocery and bought some roasted chicken and on my way home, at 63rd and May, I thought “if I turn right, I can pick up some white wine to go with this chicken.”  Huh?  Where’d that come from?  Then: “Fuck wine, how about some single malt scotch.”  Shit.  That’s bad.  The first thought, OK, that happens to recovering alcoholics and we learn to just have those thoughts and let them go.  The second thought, the one about scotch, that’s an anomaly.  That’s the kind of drinking thought I only have when really depressed or really celebrating.  That’s a tougher one to explain and let go of.  Hmmmm.  Ate dinner and it was delicious and Sinatra really enjoyed the very tiny sliver of white meat I hand fed him.  Went to Starbucks for a coffee afterwards.  I couldn’t get out of Starbucks fast enough.  A gush of agoraphobia struck me when I took my place in line behind a couple of nondescript people.  Getting into my car, I was hurt, full of rage and nonspecific anxiety, a whole admixture of feelings, and mostly, and oddly, very very lonely, alienated, beyond alone.  I’ve concluded that the discussion about relationships is dredging up some ooookey feelings that I don’t want to feel.  I hate this, but it means I might actually learn something about my authentic self.  More likely, I’ll act out and really offend someone I love and care about and spend my way out of solvency and then hide in my closet until someone comes to help me.  Ya never know, though, do ya?