Monday, May 18, 2009

Idea 37 - Staring Down The Barrel Of A Recycled Glass Gun

Harrowing/romanticized autobiographical tales of near-suicidal drug and alcohol abuse always make great gifts -- think Augusten Burroughs's Dry or Jerry Stahl's Permanent Midnight. The problem is that my white-collar, work-a-day relationship with alcohol has become embarassingly non-self-destructive. And the only drug I've ever abused was pot, which doesn't count.

But fuck it, I'm just plain tired of exagerr-lying about myself and my exploits. You've gotta write what you know, even if it's not interesting.

"Hon, do you want another IPA?" My wife, the enabler, fed the piranha of my problem with a second hoppy microbrew. It had only been 55 minutes since I had finished the first one -- tragically short of the full hour that's necessary for human body to fully process the average bottled beer. Shuddering, I realized that this was going to one of those nights.

As I washed down my organic, grass fed mushroom risotto with that conceivably fateful glass of "barley crack", I couldn't kid myself anymore -- if I didn't drink a glass of water soon, I might wake up faintly dehydrated the next morning.

"God help me," I whispered aloud in my head.

Huh. That actually came together really well (as I'm sure you noticed). Sure, I may never have found myself vomiting blood into my tattered breast pocket in an alley behind an abandoned methadone clinic, but... actually wait, I think I did do that one time back in college. Spring Break '96!

No comments:

Post a Comment