Neal's Tale -- Losing Interest in Myself

It all started when I saw my mother naked for the first time once I was old enough to be unsettled by the sight. No, wait, it was my father that I saw, so much black tangled hair and his meat erect there as if calling out a challenge. No, not erect, flaccid, as if dead, and then he … wait. No. It all started when my sister saw me naked when I was old enough to feel uncomfortable by the situation. I remember how her eyes widened, seeing me as she had never seen me before. I became something else that day, a fidgeting sort of creature whose self-esteem grew and thickened as my penis followed suit. That is when it started. Wait. I got it wrong again. It was when my wife suddenly pointed and laughed at my penis. Ever since then I’ve lost my way. I am no longer the man I used to be or even the man I once thought that I was.
On good nights – nights where the moon hangs pregnant in the sky and all the neighborhood dogs walk sideways unsure of the single purpose anymore – then I catch a glimpse of my self askance in the mirror. But any serious examination leads to disappointment. Who have I become and where did I get all this crap? It was time to get serious and start piecing this shit together, to unlock this puzzle as it were, this laundry list of insanity I seemed to be saddled with.
I had to start, of course, with Delores. Delores and her malcontent. My blushing bride of twenty odd years had become my nursemaid. When I was weeping and crawling across the Pergo like some spurned puppy, she was cooing in my ear and smoothing my hair. When I fixated on the number nine to the point where I was walking into things and drooling on my shirt, she was there to do the math. If only she hadn’t laughed at my penis – if only she hadn’t made her new role so damned apparent – if only – if only – then maybe I could have held it together. But now I am adrift.
Or maybe it’s not really her fault. Maybe I just deserve all this. I’ve become a sham at work, distracted in my day-to-day, and wild in my surmise. Maybe I have created this beast myself through too many left-footed missteps.
The more I think about this the less I actually care. I’m losing interest in my own demise and the realization of my lack of interest doesn’t interest me at all. Where does a man go when he loses interest in his own life story? What next then, dear, to fill the void? My grandfather used to tell me that no matter how delicious a woman may be, a glass is always far easier to pick up.
Maybe that’s my solution – a trough of whiskey and I the poor unsaddled filly having just crossed Monument Valley with a toothless ape on my back. Is it really that easy? Drown my sorrows? I’ll bet you ten to one those fuckers can swim.
Perhaps I should deal with this dilemma head on – confront the man I hoped to be and lay down a sheet of probing questions, beginning of course with “What the fuck happened?” I must stay focused here – gird my loins and tighten my belt. Time to come face to face with reality and … wait … hold on … shit. I can’t remember my own face anymore. I need something solid to hold on to …
“Delores!”