Don't Believe it? Just Watch Me.

The unthinkable is currently under consideration. This statement will require repeating, periodically, amongst the other sentences. It really is that serious.

Anyone who knows me, or has even met me (briefly, even), is fully aware that I am a huge proponent of drinking intoxicants. I don’t stand behind the juice just because I’m a drunkard, although that might be debatable on some level. I stand behind it because it is a fantastic out, a great barrier remover, a splendid way to go ahead and just give up all that worthless pretension for a few hours, and fine fuel for making all the mistakes in life (except the ones that endanger OTHERS’ lives) that really should be made. Besides, if you know what you like, then it tastes really damn good.

But just like everything else, there comes a point where it simply isn’t necessary. Gasp! I know. The unthinkable is currently under consideration.

But not permanently.

You see, my personality is one that lends itself to a truncated life, littered with all abandoned vices, all of which are fully capable of peace-ing-me-out of the post-womb. I’m not particularly interested in going out early, but if it happens, then so be it. However, it MUST happen amongst joyous circumstances. Like a failed parachute, while skydiving naked. Or hot sex in a tent on Kodiak island. Maybe a bad barrel ride down Niagara. Whatever.

What it CANNOT be is from a baseball bat, wielded by some douche balloon in some random public place who is simply sick and tired of hearing me talk a circus port-o-potty’s worth of shit because I’m drunk and my mind is boringly swimming through an oatmeal mush of general malaise. That’s where my sirens start to sound, and words like “abuse” and “temperament” get tossed around between my… selves. Myselves? You know what I mean.

In other words, when something destructive is no longer entertaining to me, then it needs to get curbed. If you aren't enjoying your state of obliteration, then you are, by definition, abusing it. Even worse, if you are irritated and cranky instead of laughing and telling lies about how cool you are, then you're wasting AND abusing it. And right now, I’m seriously on the cusp of getting my GROWN ass completely tore down for acting like a complete dick when I’m sauced. Sure, getting thrown out of bars is fun. It really is. But you don’t want your friends to be cheering on the bouncers and shit. You want them to get your back, even if you don’t deserve it.

BOUNCER: Hey, fucker, you peeing on the couch?
YOU [with only one eye open, leaning hard to your right]: Uh, maybe. That or someone else just peed on it. With my dick, apparently. Maybe.
BOUNCER: [lunging at you, slobbering] My MOM has to clean up that shit with a wet-dry vac! Ahhhh! I hate drunk people even though I work at a bar! OH MY FUCKING GOD I MUST CRUSH YOU!
[Lots of punching, some knocking down, laughing, crying, maybe a broken zipper in there]
YOUR FRIENDS: [option 1, preferred] Dude! Get the fuck off him, you're going to push his hemorrhoids out his ears!
[Mad Friend-defense ensues, you get hauled to safety, no one ever sits on that couch during subsequent visits]
YOUR FRIENDS: [option 2, not so preferred] What the...? Fucking Craig! Here, I'll help you drag him to that flight of cement stairs out back! He's been crying the last couple of hours and think I might like to watch him die at the hands of an angry bar-mob! Sweet!
[Bad Friend-defense ensues, you get kicked in the head by your out-of-town guest and your coworker steals your wallet before they roll you into the alley out back, where strangers join in by beating you with deck timbers and loose plumbing pipes]

Don't kid yourself, that could totally happen.

I'm extremely attached to my friends. For bad, and for worse. Even if they're tempted to get all Benedict Arnold on me. Maybe they’re just touchy every now and again, and that’s alright. We cannot be dependable ALL the time, right? But I CANNOT have my friends joining in a good ol’ ass-whooping on me, just because I have diarrhea of the mouth.

More importantly, I don’t need to be having diarrhea of the mouth. Not only does it sound completely disgusting, it is entirely preventable.

Cranky people are cranky for a reason. Every irritable lion you’ve ever met has a thorn in its paw. Problem is, no one has the time or patience to pull out anyone else’s thorns. So we’re on our own.

And in the process of finding my thorn, the most basic and necessary step for anyone with a personality as shifty as mine is to consider the unthinkable. Time for a break. Time to re-establish reasons to celebrate. Time to give myself something to cheer about when I’m plastered instead of “man, I need to do something with myself. I’m not designed for this shit. Blah-blah, poor little me, blah-fucking-blah.” Once this sort of inebriated self-consolation starts to repeat itself in front of live audiences, the speaker needs to put down the cup of impairment, stop crying about doing nothing, and go out and fuck some shit up.

Something that will bring back the jovial drunk that really, really wants to hang out. He really does. But there just hasn’t been good reason for him to drop by lately. So, dry up the double-old-fashioneds and hiballs until he returns with something to sing about. Otherwise, you just end up kickin’ it with a really surly fucker who spends WAY too much goddamn cash on booze. And food. And he tends to burn the seats with lit cigarettes or kick strangers at bus stops. It makes no sense to call that guy if you plan on going out, so if he’s guaranteed to show up every time you’re out, then just don’t bother with it.

Not until you’re sure he’s on vacation. ‘Cause that dude’s a total dick, and he’s going to get your face all kinds of broken.

So. The unthinkable is currently under consideration. And after typing this out, I believe I have come to the conclusion that I shall shelve my boozing until I get something worth boozing about. Like a finished book. Or a mastering of Chinese. Or a bronze sculpture of my naked body, wrestling Neptune, in front of any public library in Wisconsin.

Especially that last one. Jesus, that would be the best thing to happen to anyone, ever.

Of course, this means that I might be curiously absent from this blog thing for a bit. Not because I only blog when I booze, but because I might choose to do something more productive with my work hour.

Bygones. Boozegones. You get the idea.

Word.