I have decided to become an alcoholic.
This is for no other reason than there doesn’t seem to bethat much pressure involved in it.
And I’m not talking about some after work, Dr. Philpatient alcoholic. I’m talking about the real deal Holyfield,drunk all the time, wears nothing but tweed and corduroy and drinkswine from the bottle until he passes out in a ditch —that’s what I mean by alcoholic.
I figure if I start young enough, I’ll be pretty damn goodat it by the time I grow up.
When I ran this new life plan by some of my closest friends,they all asked what I was going to do for money. To which Ireplied, “Let me answer that question by asking another …Have you ever wondered why I have such rich closefriends?”
I left them speechless and with twenty dollars in my pocket— thanks Chris.
I decided to test my strengths as a credible alchy this weekend,and let me tell you it wasn’t such a bad weekend.
It was weird as hell, but not too bad.
The coolest thing about being an alcoholic is that you’redrinking not to get drunk but because you need it, so your behavioris different than that of some amateur social drinker.
It’s more of a sad drunk than a happy, party drunk. Youend up talking about Edgar Allen Poe and Russian philosophy allnight, instead of cover bands and hook-ups.
That was Thursday night, and by Saturday I had become bored withthe dull numbness of alcohol, and decided to search for a moreallusive, prestigious high: absinth.
And I’m not talking about that crap you buy atAlbertson’s. I’m talking about the real stuff. Thebottles you buy from a Lady named Baroness Red in a bathroom stallon the dark side of the quarter.
I drank half a bottle of it, composed a symphony, then cut myear off and gave it to a prostitute to spite my boyfriend, thenjumped in the Mississippi River and sang Amazing Grace as Idrowned.
Then I woke up in an apartment that was mine butwasn’t.
Needless to say, it’ll be a few days before I drinkabsinth again.
(Seriously, there is nothing funny about alcoholism, orFrontal-Lob Epilepsy, but just the fact that I tried to should makeyou smile at least a little bit.)
Anywho, I will say that for some strange reason all I canremember is falling off the wagon to the sound of JamesTaylor’s “Carolina On My Mind.””Can’t you just see the sunshine … Can’t youjust feel the moonshine…”