A role model (for the children)
Some of Gran's herbal remedy took the edge off the worst of the nausea and I crawled into work to be miserable. The mornings have always been for me a time of quiet introspection, a time for taking stock and surveying the damage. The combination of a hangover plus the final notice red stamp invoice for emotional costs incurred is a potent one, a heady pungent brew that quickly lends itself to intoxicating ruminations upon the bigger and more useless questions in life.
What have I done? Woe is me! I'm really going to quit drinking this time... I swear to God! Ha ha ha ! Ho ho ho! Just how wildly implausible, how clown-shoe ridiculous the idea had become was quickly brought home to me by an acquaintance of mine that I happened to stumble across at a party, I was sober (that day), and when I explained the reason why he said, “Caleb, every single time I see you you're quitting drinking!” It was true. Let us waste no more time on futile New Years resolutions.
I am not going to be a better person.
In a twisted kind of way I like causing trouble for myself.
Being convinced of the universality of the human condition I am certain that everyone is just as fucked, as black licorice stunted as I am, but it's impolite to peel back the bedsheets. These impulses should be sublimated, kept secret until they burst from the earth in the socially approved undersea volcanoes and geothermal vents. The snobby sneer of civility. How to kill with back rubs.
I've listened to you speak.
What have I done? Woe is me! I'm really going to quit drinking this time... I swear to God! Ha ha ha ! Ho ho ho! Just how wildly implausible, how clown-shoe ridiculous the idea had become was quickly brought home to me by an acquaintance of mine that I happened to stumble across at a party, I was sober (that day), and when I explained the reason why he said, “Caleb, every single time I see you you're quitting drinking!” It was true. Let us waste no more time on futile New Years resolutions.
I am not going to be a better person.
In a twisted kind of way I like causing trouble for myself.
Being convinced of the universality of the human condition I am certain that everyone is just as fucked, as black licorice stunted as I am, but it's impolite to peel back the bedsheets. These impulses should be sublimated, kept secret until they burst from the earth in the socially approved undersea volcanoes and geothermal vents. The snobby sneer of civility. How to kill with back rubs.
I've listened to you speak.