Oh, no, woman, I ain’t drunk… unk… hush, baby, le… let’s have another nip.
Foolish fool. Damned fool. Fucking fool. Fool of fools. Fooleristics; a cross between statistics, stochastic, and simple foolishness. What could be more foolish than that? I am the first and, most likely, last conscious (well, semi-conscious at least) adherent to this brand new mix of mathematics and philosophy. More on this when I am not quite as drunk.
You’re staggering down the sidewalk, cuz’ you’ve had a bit more than less. You know, because the bartender asked, shortly before you left, closing the place down with your last order: don’t you think you’ve had enough?
But, oh hell, you think… no. I want more. A little bit more.
So there you walk, so to speak, in the early hours of the morn’, thinking that you want more. But all the bars are closed. Going up a quiet little side-street on the way home, you fall in to the well-trimmed hedges on the side. Laughing out loud, you lie there, in the shelter behind the bushes. Thinking about what people will think when they see your legs sticking out on the sidewalk on the other side, you have to laugh even louder. It’s fucking hilarious.
It’s a lovely night, so you decide to lie there for a while and look at the stars. Everything is fine, the bushes support your waist comfortably, and you feel the cool lawn behind them on the back of your head, like the hand of a lover.
With a sigh of contentment, you settle in. It’s so wonderfully peaceful. You wouldn’t want anything less than that, and you can’t ask for more.
A very, very bad combination. Normally, you drink in order not to think. But when you drink and start to think… well. That’s the moment when you know something has gone horribly wrong. The moment when you realize you have drunk too little, or perhaps not enough… or maybe you just didn’t drink fast enough? In any case, you’ve somehow missed the point. The point of no return? No, that’s not what I meant… uhhh; no. The decisive moment? No, it’s not that either. The point. You missed the point. You know what I mean, don’t you? Christ. As always, the answer is not at the bottom of the glass. How often are you going to try this until you give up? It’s the third bottle, every damned time. That’s when you start thinking again, and it’s no good.
Just now a tractor drove past, in the middle of fucking town, in the middle of the fucking night, b’god. What the hell is going on here? Listening to Running from Milky Chance. Trying my very best to stop thinking.
Walking along, on and on. Tottering on the razor’s edge, staggering, step after wavering step, falling down, down… no matter, you’re not going to give up now. Not ever. It’s your particular way to stagger. You’ll stand the pain, if you should fall on the razor’s edge. You’ll get cut, like a hundred times before, but wotthehell.
Cut to the bone, but you have to stand up. You have to show the world you can take the pain. Indomitable will, and so on. You talk to your drunken soul: you goin’ to give up now, you lazy little cunt? Down to the last minute, down to the last second, down to the bitter fucking end: keep your head up. Walk proud.
You’re tired, and you want to go home. And you can’t stop thinking about her, though you know it does you no good. Like Sisyphus you are condemned to push the rock –composed of self-reproach, chagrin, and yearning, in equal parts– up the bloody hill, only to have it roll back down. Your thoughts go in circles. The beer, wine and cocktails sloshing around in your stomach don’t exactly help to clear things up.