The Story Of My Fucking Life


Posted by ilbebe on January 20, 2012

I was standing outside reading a book, smoking a cigarette, thinking about what it was that I might write a book about. Instead, predictably, I thought about why I wasn’t more drunk. I’d been drinking, and it had been twelve hours since I’d eaten. Maybe I was hungry. No! Eating was the enemy. Eating made it harder to get drunk. I would have to drink more. SO why wasn’t I? I thought maybe the recliner I sat in put my stomach at a disadvantage, where the cheap beers I was draining couldn’t be absorbed properly. Standing up, outside, smoking a cig and reading, I always drank more prodigiously. Maybe standing was key. Maybe smoking was key. Maybe having someone to talk to, or being out of the house, or having a more palatable beer was key. WHY DID I WANT THIS KEY? I wanted this key because my life was waiting to be drunk enough to go to sleep, wake up, resist being fully awake, and then drink again. It was a condition, I had gathered, that was not unusual. I had wanted more for myself, yet here I was.

Having people to talk to must be key, if not the key. But I was more and more reluctant to leave the house to drink. It cost more, first off. Second, I was loathe to get into an inane discussion with some other sad piece of shit at a bar; I had done that plenty of times, and wasn’t eager for more grist for the awful hours between when I hit the sheets anywhere south of hammered and unconsciousness. I didn’t know what to do other than come inside and commit these thoughts to the computer. Perhaps paper would have been more effective and resonant, like the three-page missive I wrote in a journal in September 2009 directing myself to stop drinking so that I had a fair shot at a loving relationship with a woman. I didn’t listen to myself then, which led to the first relationship I’ve ever had which started at a bar. That shit ended awfully, and let to me punching a hole in my bedroom wall one frantic morning a month after it ended; it was so bad I couldn’t wash it out of my mind. That relationship is a small part of why I found myself writing the beginning words of this chapter in the summer of 2011 and saving it in a file titled “Outside”. The file sat untouched on my e-desktop until today.

Now it is the winter of 2011-2012. And it has been a warm one so far.



2 Responses to “Seventy-three”

  1. Wow. This is how my human existence feels sometimes. Nice work.

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