Published April 8th, 2018 at 5:22am
Somewhere in the screaming neighbourhood of midnight:
Christ, it’s been awhile since I came on here after a few drinks. Perhaps too long since I’ve come on but just long enough since Old St. Liquor was in the equation. Just long enough to convince myself I have control of the situation. I never have anything important to say when I come on here though. When the thought strikes its first match it always seems as though I’m overflowing with profound and world changing revelations. After some guesswork at what the password and secret knock could possibly be for this damned website I typically stare at the blank screen, as if waiting for something to appear in front of me. It’s worked thus far, and I have high hopes again tonight.
The clock is somewhere past midnight while the start of tomorrow is set at 6:00am. I have the alarm set about 10 minutes prior to that so I have a few moments of extra sleep before I inevitably have to wake up and the regret has a moment to sink in. Perhaps this is what coffee was invented for though I can’t help thinking there was a more noble cause at stake than helping irresponsible line cooks hate their job slightly less than they otherwise would. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. I suspect not as I have read nothing at all.
The question of the night beckons to me again; what the hell am I on about? What great moment is being encapsulated between the meandering thoughts of a sleep deprived bastard, high on a week of living in the woods and whatever is caught under my finger nails and in the depths of my naval? Just as one would suspect; nothing. This is writing simply for the cause. Beating the drum just to feel the warmth behind the rythym, as it were.
Some music to calm the nerves. Yes, these nerves of mine could use a break. A break from the stress of sleeping through what was designated to be ‘Study Time.’ I know myself well enough to know there was a 35% chance -at best- I’d manage to adhere to the itinerary for the day. Regardless of how much of my day is rolled out before me I can count on the fact that I’ll likely say fuck the plan and take off in the direction of my nearest instinct. Some might see this among my greatest weaknesses. To me, I see a strength in the frailty of my concentration. What excitement is there in sticking to the designated plan? The answer is none. I see this life the same way I see a chocolate cake; I couldtake my time and enjoy it one square piece at a time but I would much rather eat half of it with my bare hands until my gut gives way to spastic convulsions of agony and I’ve dropped to my knees in a fit of self hatred mixed with the desire to continue gorging myself. Maybe I got lost somewhere along the way in that metaphor. Maybe it’s exactly how I meant it to be. I really can’t be sure.
Pour a little more now. It’s no easier to write but it’s easier to open the gates. The words aren’t blurred yet anyways. The last time I took a whole one of these back my memories came in bursts and day turned to night in the blink of an eye. So long as I’m not there I don’t see an error in my way. Then again you won’t know you’ve walked too far on to the ice until it cracks and you fall through before you have time to realize what you’ve gotten yourself into. That’s the thrill of it, I suppose. My own Russian Roulette except there’s a bullet in every chamber. Half of them blanks. Don’t be fooled, though. It was a blank round that killed Brandon Lee.
As fate would have it, you can’t pray away drunkenness. You can try but you’re more likely to fall into your shower curtain while pissing than anything. Either Christ isn’t real or he can’t heal a drunken prick at his peak. You be the judge.
Am I going to be fired today? Tune in next time for the answer!
For the first time since I was 15 there’s Marilyn Mason blaring violently from under my door. And much unlike when I was 15, I have a job to go to in the next 90 minutes. I told my boss I’d be ill but I suspect he expected something different than the drunken imp who is likely to walk into his kitchen in two hours. That sounds more like his problem than mine. My problem will be waiting for me in the form of a psychology exam awaiting me Monday morning at about 9 in the God for saken am. What God has to do with this level of debauchery is beyond me but I have to blame someone for this level of punishment, right?
Sweet Allah, my cat even left the room. He doesn’t want his name to be involved with this sort of debauchery. I can’t argue with him as he runs. What self respecting cat would want his name tied to this kind of nonsensical chaos. Oscar is his name. Look him up. He’s bound to have a healthier social media presence than my own. Then again, what in the name of Good Sweet Mike -as the great Murial Finster would put it- am I on about?
Right, it matters not. I have a job to do -drunk or not- by 7:00. Have a lovely day.