My life seems very long, right up until I read something I had written. I read over some musings or ideas or complaints or triumphs of the human spirits imagined or real, and it could have been a week ago, a month at the most I scribed it. Until I look at the date and see years have passed. Passed along with relationships jobs apartments feuds bets and cares. Yet somehow my writing remains at most a month away. I look back and see how little I’ve written, how little of myself I’ve penned for later me or god forbid anyone but you to see. My memory can barely hold my bitch sister’s name and her slew of kids. Wait, one kid, Michael. He’s just so sweepingly flamboyant it seems like there’re eight of him when I’m drunk. And I’m usually drunk. Not that that’s a bad thing (the flamboyancy) he just has a certain ardent fluidity that looks like a time delay shot on a camera when he moves. His mom has finally admitted that he’s gay, but she calls it “cute” or “a little phase”. Same way she described by alcohol “problem” when I had my first full week blacked out. So we can pretty much discount that theory. No, he’ll be fine. Gay indeed! Maybe next time I’ll start drinking AFTER I start writing one of these. It’s just too damn depressing, babbling ink through a rusty typewriter for a fucking check. But, it’ll be a good goal. Almost forgot what it was like to have one of those. Because drinking isn’t a goal, it a tactic. Drunk just helps me achieve my goal of not thinking about my shitty life for a bit. God damn it I’m a depressing fuck. Maybe I’ll do some community service. Though I seem to remember me being someone’s community service, so maybe I’ll just try to stop being such a whiney shit. The cockroaches look happy, why shouldn’t I be as happy as them? Because they live rent free! Why is my typewriter rusty?
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My sister says I need to join alcoholics anonymous. I tell her everyone knows I’m a goddamned alcoholic, so it’s not very anonymous. My sister is a bitch. And I don’t say this because she wants me to join a program. I say this because she acts like bitch. She has made fun of me every thanksgiving since she could talk. I only come home on thanksgiving because there’s enough food to keep me sober and my mother is a saint of a woman who doesn’t mind that I’m a degenerate drunk who’s only kept alive because you make money off my depressed ramblings. At least I think you make money off these, otherwise this would be a little creepy. Though I’ve never seen these published in a magazine. Though I haven’t read a magazine except for “highlight” and “pregnant today” at the free clinic. Soooo. I hate being too drunk to be poor. Wait. Too poor to be drunk. Though I suppose it goes both ways. Like the fat man who eats because he’s depressed and fat because he eats. Though I’m not fat and it doesn’t depress me that I drink. If I didn’t drink I think I’d go insane. They say alcohol drives people crazy but that’s obviously a lie. People drink to keep from going insane, the people that drink know they’re going insane anyway and they might as well forget about it for a few hours. I gleaned this information from a meeting outside an AA meeting my sister dropped me off at in exchange for forty bucks. She doesn’t care if I drink; she just likes to scare her kids with what might happen to them if they ever drink a single drop of alcohol. Of course they’ll go insane in college the first drink they have will somehow become 8 and they’ll wind up blowing a fellow drunk freshman behind the dorms. At least Billy will, that kid is gayer than a Liberace Elton John swirl. And his moronic mother is in denial, luckily for him I gave him the “be whoever the fuck you want to be speech” and I think that maybe next year when he gets into middle school it’ll sink in. Gay is the new black. People playing at something they’re not for social status and personal freedom knowing they can pretend for a few minutes without having to deal with the rest of their lives. And if I were sober enough to see the numbers on the word count I’d have proof this is enough for a case of ramen and three handles of plastic bottle gin. Hell, if you throw in a bonus I might even get a jug of pop to drink it with.
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