Lucky Boxers

Need some encouragement.
At night, after a shower, I reach in my drawer and put on my lucky boxers.
Talisman, they are.
It's the trinkets in life that can give living the most meaning and I feel like there is a good day ahead as I pour a glass of chocolate milk. A fly bites my arm and I scratch and ponder.
Earlier in the shower it all came pouring out.
Lost in a sea of Lemony Snickets, unfortunate events, I wondered how the true melancholies dealt with prolonged downers in life. I guess Poe drank himself to death.
"Not a bad idea," I say out loud with the water streaming down me.
But then again the hangover would be terrible.
As the steam dissipates, my melancholy drys up.
Drying off, I think I'm happy to be sober, as I think clearer sober.
Around midnight I begin to write. I've written a lot in the last few weeks. Stories. Papers. But it feels good to finally get my thoughts down.
To think about all those things you feel.
Maybe this is catharsis. Or just words.
The feeling is fine no matter what.
By the end of it my lucky boxers are kicking in, and I'm feeling fine.