We used to joke about waking up broke, dirty, and confused, with only a dim notion that we had been up to no good the night before. You would think that by the time a person reaches their thirties, they would have left such frivolities behind … but not always.
I don’t use drugs and I rarely drink anymore—usually just a few beers on the weekend—but for whatever reason, I have gotten positively hammered a couple of times in the last month and raved about anything that popped into my head in this stupid column of mine.
Computers are like guns: they should be given a wide berth when it comes to alcohol.
But so what? At least I don’t call people that I haven’t talked to in ten years; and so far, I have not pawned my wedding ring nor quit my job, so I guess all is not lost. But still, what possesses a person to drink eleven cans of Milwaukee’s Best Ice? (And if that’s the best that Milwaukee has to offer, they need to try harder. That beer tasted like cheap vodka mixed with cold coffee.)
At least my wife understands; she brought me three Excedrin to chew up before I even got out of bed. Still, my head is throbbing like a rotten tooth and I’m trying not to throw up on my keyboard. Well, it could be worse. I didn’t do anything really dumb like getting whiskey drunk or firing down a bunch of MD 20/20.
Hmmmm … I set out last night to talk about nothing more than the exciting prospect of seeing my books in print (coming soon to Amazon), but it seems that I got hung up on politics as usual and went off on a nasty, sarcastic, satirical burn on the Republicans—the kind of shit that is better left unsaid.
Screw it. Nothing is sacred—not anymore. How does that saying go? The one about heat and kitchens? Maybe Jack Nicholson was right: maybe we can’t handle the truth … and shit, why would we want to?