The Sink

You decide to hit your head against the sink. You are very drunk, but the pain is nevertheless exquisite. You do it again, and again. She will never come back… again. Is that blood? Yes. Again. Something cracks. Is it the sink, or your head? You aren’t sure, you are extremely drunk, and the blows to your head aren’t helping either. Again. Your vision blurs… at last, you think, some results. Again. The sink cracks. The landlord will simply have to replace it. Again, again, again… again! My God, the pain! Get it done! Again! She will never come back! Again! You pass out and fall on the hard white tiles.
It was one of those cry for help things.
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The Hero

Clean of tooth, sparkling brown eyes… wait, are they not also red of rim? Behold, are those not dark rings under the eyes? And, though he be clean of tooth, does not his breath betray him? Drunk as a fucking doornail.

Here We Are

Well, here we are. Drunk, and alone. Typical situation. So… what shall the topic of conversation be on this fine evening? Drunken loneliness? Lonely drunks? Skunks? Punks? No? You may be thinking: he is alone, poor fucker, and there can be, in light of this fact, no conversation. Wrong. You simply have no fucking idea how many incredible conversations one can have with one’s own little self. Sometimes those are the best conversations of all. No distractions. No silly comments from well-meaning idiots who haven’t the slightest idea. No interruptions, waugh, that is the best! No one to tell me I am wrong! Whoop!
How did I get here? Well, let’s go back in time… two people fuck, a child is born, is christened Mr. Hellstrøm, grows through trials and tribulations to be a middle aged cynical asshole… voilá! Simple as that.
Time isn’t after our asses. Time doesn’t care. The days go by, and it is up to us to fill them with meaning, or with Dada, or with beauty, or with hell.
No matter what you do
The heavens are blue
The rest of your life lies before you

Borrowed Time

I am so drunk I’ve spilled my wine. I have heard that a true alcoholic is never so drunk that he spills his drink, which is a consolation to me: I spill my drink ever so often (God help my carpet). It follows that I can’t possibly be an alcoholic. Alcohol, you son-of-a-bitch. In my youth I would have nothing to do with alcohol. I drank my first drop at the ripe age of 20 years. I was afraid of it, because I had seen what it could do to a man. I knew a true alcoholic, bless his soul. He beat the alcohol, but he’s dead now, a victim of cancer… and who’s to know if his cancer wasn’t a result of his drinking? Liver cancer.
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This was a man I loved and respected. He was a mentor to me. Later he told stories of his drunkenness, though he drank no more. He told all kinds of stories. He wrote too, though he couldn’t believed anyone would ever appreciate what he wrote. He burned most of it. He was a beautiful person. I can remember stroking his hair, as a child, as he lay with his head in my lap. Well. We’re all living on borrowed time.
Bunkhouse Theme from Bob Dylan.

Drunken Function

It is truly unbelievable how drunk one can be and nevertheless function. It makes me wonder at the low level of expectancy. Has the bar been set so low, in the name of progress?
Honestly, I could arrive at work smashed, sozzled, sloshed… my co-workers might notice, but my boss would not be able to tell a difference in my productivity. I once sat in front of my boss and demanded a great bloody smacking raise, still completely pissed from the past night, and got it.
Hell, I notice the difference, I feel the slightest hesitance along the way, but no more; and, in fact, I get the same amount of work done in the same time.
Ahh… but I notice, on the days when I am rarin’ to go, that I have not enough to do, that I am not in the least challenged… well. I suppose I should be thankful. After all, it leaves me the mental energy to write. You are thankful for that too… aren’t you, dear reader?
Listening to Changing Of The Guards as rendered by Patti Smith. Damned good.
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Gnahhr

God, how I hate it when I spill peanuts on the carpet, drunken fool that I am. Alone, you growl at such things, in a way you would never allow yourself in the presence of civilized human companionship (not to speak of civilized human female companionship). Terrible.
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Thank God my wine-consumption is limited by available money.
And, with some luck, I’ll soon have some sort of woman again. That will curtail the growling, and the wine as well. Or will I, God forbid, get hold of a woman who doesn’t give a damn how much I drink, how many peanuts I spill on the floor? A woman who will accept me as I am, growl and all? Heaven forbid.

End of the Rope

Or tether. Ever come to the end of your tether? Life is hell, really, no shit, and you just don’t know how you are going to get through one more minute of it. And you gasp and waver… because it hurts inside. It’s a physical feeling, I know. You feel like a prize-fighter who’s playing the ropes, and you’ve been hit once too often, and you’re not quite sure if you’ll survive the fight. That moment of doubt… and at that moment you get one full in the face. You’d like to lie down and die, but you force yourself to stand. You’ll win yet, you say to yourself.
Thomas Jefferson said, if you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on, but I say: there is always more rope, so cut yourself some slack. Let some more rope out, for Christ’s sake… give yourself some room. Give the poor horse some reign. Go get drunk. Scream. Sob. Go out in the middle of the night, lie down on the sidewalk, and observe the fucking stars. Most likely, no one will even notice it, and if they do, what the hell.
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A while back I got so drunk at a party of distant neighbors that I subsequently, on the way home, threw down one of the big caution signs surrounding the road work on the corner of my street. Four big signs, anchored with huge weights… I had a great old time rocking them back and forth until one cracked to the ground. I cut myself some big time slack there. Do you think anyone noticed or cared?
If anyone did notice they probably said: crazy American, he’s up to no good, as we said he would be when he moved here twenty years ago; and now, just when we though he might fit in after all… never did like the bastard, aye. Ah, well, never mind. Gertrud, bring me another bier, would you? Or something to that effect.
It wasn’t my fault, really… factor one: too many shots of tequila (with salt and slices of lemon, urged on me by the neighbors nice little wife), factor two: my girlfriend at the time (she wasn’t there, but her influence was –the perceptive neighbors wife noticed it, she saw my need– see this entry, factor three: … me. I guess it was my fault after all. But hey, I was just cutting me some slack bro, ya gotta unnerstan’ that.
A society that can’t tolerate you cutting yourself some big time slack when you need it is not a society that is worth living in.
So, you see, the rope has no end. It just keeps on getting worse, haha!