Drink Fire, Vomit Pain

When I was in my twenties I didn’t drink. It wasn’t that I was prohibited from doing so, in fact, I was encouraged to. My friends all drank, socially, or whatever it is you call a bunch of idiots gathering around and drinking until someone was too drunk to stand. I, well, I took the high road because I was pretentious. Pretentious and drinking alcohol made me want to cut off my tongue and soak it in cheese just to rid myself of that awful taste. I justified it, saying I didn’t need to drink to be social. And while they had fun, I sat quietly, observing their inebriated behaviors.


Perhaps, I was friends with them during the wrong years of my life. Or maybe alcohol is an acquired taste and I was just too averse to it to give it a chance. Now, I don’t mind the taste so much. The brief moments of clarity during the drunkenness are a welcomed surprise. And, the way it distracts from the actual pain makes it a worthwhile companion.


You see, I’ve come to treat alcohol like a high school friend (the friends I had during my twenties). Whenever they came around they made me feel good for a while; then they’d be around too long and I’d get irritated and want to fight; they’d leave and I’d remember that I didn’t like them all that much to begin with; then I’d get lonely, alone with my thoughts, and I wish they were around again.


I guess I’ll have another drink and wonder some more.




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