I'm having an identity crisis. Help me, please.

I think I'm fat again.

I've taken the neighbors to be hostile enemy combatants by the way they're lobbing an aerial bombardment in my direction. Their bombs are exploding feet above my peaceful hut under the oak tree and I wait anxiously enough for the straw to catch flame from an errant ember.
It's no longer North versus South like last year, but neighbor versus neighbor, brother against brother. Thinking my life to be in danger I went to the house and grabbed my Remington shotgun and pointed it at the neighbor lighting the fuse of another missile. Little did he know my gun was loaded with blanks but when he heard the report and saw the sparks he jumped like he took the double ought in the chest. After rubbing his hands across his body several times and found out his skin was still in tact, he actually had the balls to call the police on me.
Hey, pal, the next time they won't be blanks.

Hmmph. Almost forgot about this thing here. I guess everyone else did too. Things change -- and that's good. For instance, I haven't drank gin in almost a year. Say hello to some good rum and for the cold days tasty Scotch. Yum! St. Peter knocked on my door not too long ago and gave me a bottle. I was skepticle at first but let him in after he answered several questions in a satisfactory manner. I still can't believe he survived being run over and found his way home. I shall try harder next time. Whatever, nobody knows what the hell I'm talking about anyway. I could say anything I want like I shit in Jay's pillow case and he still slept through the night and woke up with the worst case of dragon breath. Better yet, he blamed the pillow case incident on the cat. That's one big fucking cat, killer, but how else could one explain such an atrocity.
Eat shit. Hit the hay.
Larry

When the one woman who was your writing mentor -- the one who encouraged you and made you want to write -- dies unexpectadly, too young and not on her terms, are you expected to write something about it? Do your feelings really matter any more? Your thoughts? My words mean nothing right now, and perhaps they never will. But that does not make me upset -- just thankful I had the chance to create a voice with the support and depth of someone who meant something. That's enough for me.

Larry

It's been a long time and I don't care. Only when the planets align correctly can I discuss my thoughts properly and now is the moment. I can only handle so much of the Catholic religion and its proper, respectful properties before I have to pick up the computer and look like I'm busy with important work to avoid the intense, deep discourse evolving in my living room right this minute.
Unfortunately, this is real, I can't conjur this from my horribly miscued imagination -- even with or without a bottle of gin sitting on the table in front of us. I've given up. My head is spinning from the evil of something and I'm squirming with the discomforts of being loaded off of rum and trying to make sense of all this religious conversation that makes as much sense as putting a V8 in a chevette. I can't take much more -- bed is the only thing I can deal with at this point. Someone will be puking in the bushes -- but it won't be me. I'll be in bed listening with comfortable ears, laughing dearly at their ignorance and intolerance. Holy crap. I hope I don't die in the process.

St. Peter showed up on my doorstep drunk last. I asked where in the hell he's been the past two weeks, and he couldn't tell me. Apparently, he hitchhiked home - at least to the Mississippi River for what I can tell - and walked the rest of the way here.
He mentioned stopping at someone's house for Thanksgiving, but the in-laws ignored him and he stole their Scotch and drank it under a pine tree until the sun went down. It was the moon, he said, that kept him warm, and this theory puzzled me. I explained to the drunk St. Peter that the moon only reflects, not radiate, and he created a horrible scene by throwing stones and a chair at me and called me a heathen because I told all his friends he was a liar. He soon apologized for the emotional outburst and admitted it was the Scotch which got him through the cold November afternoon and evening.
I thought it best to forgive and asked him what happened to the Freightliner and St. Peter looked at me in a very perplexed manner. He had no idea what I was talking about and it was obvious the old truck we stole from the neighbor was a gonner. I'll come up with an excuse for the neighbor later about the whereabouts of his truck.
Truly, I'm just happy the guardian of the pearly gate is home. He said there's good in the world, just not at my house - probably because I wouldn't poor the bastard another drink. I asked St. Peter where is this good? He said, "Everywhere but here, you stingy sonofabitch."
"No shit, Jack," I returned, "there's good everywhere? Prove it."
Of course, he couldn't. St. Peter just said I'd have to take his word for it. And I probably will. After all, he's The Lord's No. 1 man and he would never lie to me.