Disgracefully Drunk

Harsh mouth, foul scent, lurching, slurring, and stumbling. Needless to say, I am hammered beyond salvage and absolutely embalmed to the gills.

I’m in my car trying to find the steering wheel, driving home with useful terror. Because, y’know, you always give your heart to the future ’cause the present is where you hustle.

‘Cause pints of Guinness gets down to business.

I let moonlight pour into my eyes before tomorrow’s sun bakes it raw. Somewhere in my head my brain is telling me what to do. But sobriety is a distant jewel, ghost beyond ghost, holding on to dear life while looking for little deaths— something cute, something evil.

I know there are other ways to wash the mind but this method is faster, more efficient with the clinical fidelity of Ctrl+Alt+Delete. It turns down the volume in my head and anesthetizes all paralytic fears, a vision quest of rational derangement and a moment of total immunity.

To me, drunk sonatas are a biological requirement, a liquid education like lightning preceding a heavy storm. The solution is just around the corner, within the peripheral blur; you just have to look closer.

Maybe think outside the box or be the box???

Most people think they need to be happy all the time, so they walk around ticking on a leash. Always starstruck and spirit-torn with envy. Always spiteful of others who are happy because they are not. But no one is happy all the time, not even when you’re drunk.

All these progressive, buddhist-wannabe, yin-yang mofos seem to forget the yang part of the equation. You know, the dark side of things. You can’t talk about “balance” and “harmony” and “nature” without taking into account the other side of life’s coin— the hard-luck, fucked up, bad days. Lest we forget, existence is beautiful but it is also without mercy.

This preoccupation of only wanting the happy-happy-good— sugar-free, fat-free, gluten-free, safe space, no bullying, always positive— type of life has left many delusional and depressed. It creates a society of pudgy, sensitive, narcotic-dependents with second-hand dreams.

No fuss, no muss, no originality because everyone is special. No real truths anymore because there are no real consequences. Too much happiness will always cause the evil inside to show.

But that’s subjective, bruh. Stop being so binary.

And yet society has never been so binary, so political, so partisan. Today it’s either this or that— either him or her or us or them. Either you’re part of the solution or part of the problem.

I say, fuck that shit. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I’m too busy holding myself together as it is— struggling not to say uncouth things, trying not to do unchaste actions, fighting not to blackout and commit a mortal sin-caliber act of gluttony by eating fork-to-pan in the middle of the night I won’t even remember.

Wait, who the fuck ate all the food?

Anyway, that’s just my opinion. Just a sobering assessment of things while I’m inebriated and the specters stare in the hall. Things could be worse. I could be an angry, self-loathing drunk— heart inflamed out of deep repentance, detesting oneself so much he repels anyone that shows him kindness.

Luckily, I’m just drunk. Just kissing the booze good night and wandering in my head, the last man’s cave, where I’d like to hide from time to time.

Now where the hell’s my drink?

Sippin on some sizzurp, sip, sip!

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