REPORT FROM THE FRONTLINES OF MY PERSONAL WAR ON SOBRIETY: DAY 10
Recently it became apparent to me that life was craftily harboring a WMD that could potentially wreak havoc against my general well-being. The WMD in question was the impending wrapping up of my dissertation and thereby finishing of grad school. If that fucker were unleashed on me, not only would I sustain a significant casualty in losing my $1800/month stipend that's currently given to me for literally doing nothing, but I would probably also have my 90 minutes of advisor-related meetings replaced by a 40-hour workweek: a nearly-2700% increase in my time accountable to the man.
These horrors alone were enough to cause me to contemplate suicide, but last Monday I received the delivery of a substantial sack of sweet, purple-budded hydroponic weed. At the moment of delivery, as I gazed into the delicious-looking crystals of THC that peppered my drug spoils, my course in life also crystallized: to prevent graduating from school permanently, I would wage a war on sobriety.
The initial campaign witnessed a phase of veritable shock and awe, as I pounded bowl after bowl at regular intervals throughout the day, starting with a wake and bake and closing with a goodnight toke, all the while polishing off the sizable store of beer in the apartment. I also watched the entire second season of 24, and experienced all sorts of realizations that are obscured to the sober, such as how high winds are the greatest natural enemy to the homeless, greater than even rain or snow, or bears. And how I figured out how I could get back at this bitch of an ex-girlfriend for old time’s sake, by auditioning for and getting on the next MTV Real World, and then at some point in the middle of the season, making some elaborate confession/apology thing about how I was cheating on that bitch for the ENTIRE 2 and a half years we dated (when in truth I never did). Think about how hard that would *completely* flip around the final upper hand in that relationship. I’d give everyone that knows her, even HER family members and shit I haven’t ever met, the false impression that she got fooled around on for a full 2 and a half years, completely not realizing it. I also perfected my preparation of Pepperidge Farm Garlic Texas Toast by mowing down half a dozen boxes of the shit, both in the toaster and on the gas grill, such that now I can attain a perfect browning of both sides of said delicacy in minimum time by a well-tuned trajectory of toast/grill temperature.
Still, by the time Thursday rolled around, I was still waking up with only a vague aftertaste of inebriation. That was when I realized that sobriety was a much more staunch opponent than I had originally estimated. Insurgents of self-restraint were popping up all over the place, like phone calls from the tax man to sign various important documents, and requests from my advisor to produce a grant report. Rather than winning this war in 1 hour, or 1 day, or even 1 week, I might need to sustain the beatdown for a longer period.
At that point, I made a decision. It was time to step the fuck up and DOMINATE this fucker.
I reloaded on beer and that afternoon I took down several of them along with 2 bowls, then hit Triple Rock for Monkeyhead night. Multiple 40-oz bottles of 12% doublebock were vanquished over some games of backgammon with Cartwright, after which a larger group returned to the home base for several additional bowls and a bottle and a half of Jameson. I was royally fucked up that night, and just as I had planned, was able to turn Friday into a full-fledged bender, never even approaching the semblence of soberness. And on Saturday, I delivered what I thought would be the deathblow, by eating nothing but a single apple prior to destroying multiple bowls and 3 margaritas consisting of 3 shots Sauza + 1 shot Triple Sec each, then hitting bars with a college friend. That night, I am told, ended in resounding success as I rebuffed the advances of a tight-bodied bartender bitch with the demand that she "fix me a REAL fucking water goddamit."
On Sunday afternoon, I detected through the thick haze of residual weed buzz that my beer reserves had dwindled precipitously, and so hastily assembled a BBQ in which I advised everyone who was coming to bring beer since everyone else would end up bringing only salad and other shit, knowing full well that I would end up with a restocked reserve of brews when the dust settled. And using that supply in addition to the still-well-stocked reserve of pot, I have managed to ward off sobriety's advances well into Week 2.
But I have some serious misgivings about the final destination of this war. For one thing, I have a growing fear that my tolerance is beginning to skyrocket, reducing the impact of each subsequent bowl or drink. Also, my supply is not infinite, and my financial situation has taken a hit, in that I lost $16k over this period playing online poker while completely twisted to shit. Although I did manage to turn my 9th $500 buyin at backgammon site Play65 into close to $6000, I am still at -$14.5k in total, or running at a rate of -$1,450 per day of battle, not including the incidental cost of supplies such as booze and drugs, and the rare food ration.
But mark my words, fuckers, I will not be defeated easily. And if I do go down in flames of sobriety and woefully graduate, the last thing I utter to my advisor will be stolen from Grady Tripp: "Well... thank you for the thought, but shocking as it may sound, I am not the first writer to sip a little weed. Furthermore, it might surprise you to know that this dissertation I wrote, as you say, 'under the influence,' just happened to win a little something called a Ph.D. Which, by the way, I am accepting under the influence."
These horrors alone were enough to cause me to contemplate suicide, but last Monday I received the delivery of a substantial sack of sweet, purple-budded hydroponic weed. At the moment of delivery, as I gazed into the delicious-looking crystals of THC that peppered my drug spoils, my course in life also crystallized: to prevent graduating from school permanently, I would wage a war on sobriety.
The initial campaign witnessed a phase of veritable shock and awe, as I pounded bowl after bowl at regular intervals throughout the day, starting with a wake and bake and closing with a goodnight toke, all the while polishing off the sizable store of beer in the apartment. I also watched the entire second season of 24, and experienced all sorts of realizations that are obscured to the sober, such as how high winds are the greatest natural enemy to the homeless, greater than even rain or snow, or bears. And how I figured out how I could get back at this bitch of an ex-girlfriend for old time’s sake, by auditioning for and getting on the next MTV Real World, and then at some point in the middle of the season, making some elaborate confession/apology thing about how I was cheating on that bitch for the ENTIRE 2 and a half years we dated (when in truth I never did). Think about how hard that would *completely* flip around the final upper hand in that relationship. I’d give everyone that knows her, even HER family members and shit I haven’t ever met, the false impression that she got fooled around on for a full 2 and a half years, completely not realizing it. I also perfected my preparation of Pepperidge Farm Garlic Texas Toast by mowing down half a dozen boxes of the shit, both in the toaster and on the gas grill, such that now I can attain a perfect browning of both sides of said delicacy in minimum time by a well-tuned trajectory of toast/grill temperature.
Still, by the time Thursday rolled around, I was still waking up with only a vague aftertaste of inebriation. That was when I realized that sobriety was a much more staunch opponent than I had originally estimated. Insurgents of self-restraint were popping up all over the place, like phone calls from the tax man to sign various important documents, and requests from my advisor to produce a grant report. Rather than winning this war in 1 hour, or 1 day, or even 1 week, I might need to sustain the beatdown for a longer period.
At that point, I made a decision. It was time to step the fuck up and DOMINATE this fucker.
I reloaded on beer and that afternoon I took down several of them along with 2 bowls, then hit Triple Rock for Monkeyhead night. Multiple 40-oz bottles of 12% doublebock were vanquished over some games of backgammon with Cartwright, after which a larger group returned to the home base for several additional bowls and a bottle and a half of Jameson. I was royally fucked up that night, and just as I had planned, was able to turn Friday into a full-fledged bender, never even approaching the semblence of soberness. And on Saturday, I delivered what I thought would be the deathblow, by eating nothing but a single apple prior to destroying multiple bowls and 3 margaritas consisting of 3 shots Sauza + 1 shot Triple Sec each, then hitting bars with a college friend. That night, I am told, ended in resounding success as I rebuffed the advances of a tight-bodied bartender bitch with the demand that she "fix me a REAL fucking water goddamit."
On Sunday afternoon, I detected through the thick haze of residual weed buzz that my beer reserves had dwindled precipitously, and so hastily assembled a BBQ in which I advised everyone who was coming to bring beer since everyone else would end up bringing only salad and other shit, knowing full well that I would end up with a restocked reserve of brews when the dust settled. And using that supply in addition to the still-well-stocked reserve of pot, I have managed to ward off sobriety's advances well into Week 2.
But I have some serious misgivings about the final destination of this war. For one thing, I have a growing fear that my tolerance is beginning to skyrocket, reducing the impact of each subsequent bowl or drink. Also, my supply is not infinite, and my financial situation has taken a hit, in that I lost $16k over this period playing online poker while completely twisted to shit. Although I did manage to turn my 9th $500 buyin at backgammon site Play65 into close to $6000, I am still at -$14.5k in total, or running at a rate of -$1,450 per day of battle, not including the incidental cost of supplies such as booze and drugs, and the rare food ration.
But mark my words, fuckers, I will not be defeated easily. And if I do go down in flames of sobriety and woefully graduate, the last thing I utter to my advisor will be stolen from Grady Tripp: "Well... thank you for the thought, but shocking as it may sound, I am not the first writer to sip a little weed. Furthermore, it might surprise you to know that this dissertation I wrote, as you say, 'under the influence,' just happened to win a little something called a Ph.D. Which, by the way, I am accepting under the influence."