Worn

I'm wearing a vodka martini. I'm wearing the tiredness that comes with having a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter who, yesterday, as I was watching, face-planted off a park bench when I was just out of reach. I'm wearing guilt. In the shorts I'm wearing, which are painting shorts, as I'm painting the living room Benjamin Moore "Twisted Oak Path" ($40-a-gallon tan), I'm wearing a wallet in which I'm wearing about $120 cash and minus $11,000 in credit. I'm wearing a photo of my daughter in my wallet, she's absoutely the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, she looks just like Cindy Lou Who from The Grinch That Stole Christmas. She gets anything she wants when she looks up at Dad and she's wearing big blue blinking eyes. I'm not wearing shoes. I'm wearing a wedding ring my wife made. I'm wearing a couple of nasty bug bites, because I like to sit outside at night with my vodka martini, even if the bugs are biting. I'm wearing hair that should probably be cut in the next couple of weeks. I'm wearing skin that would look better if I drank more water. I'm wearing teeth that need to see a dentist. I'm not wearing glasses, but I can't hear worth shit. I'd wear a Dusty Baker Giants uniform if he came back to San Francisco and someone gave me one for free. I'm probably wearing the grease of a Quarter Pounder With Cheese I ate earlier today. I should be drinking more water. I should be taking vitamins. I should make a dentist appointment. I'm wearing apathy. I'm worn out.