On Sinking Slowly Into Inebriation

The first shot of whiskey slides down my throat, warm and satisfying. Many more will follow this one.

I think to myself, "My heroes would be proud."

True, Hemingway and Bukowski might be compelled to join me in my drunken fun, but upon further review, Hemingway ended up blowing his brains out, and Bukowski lived his life in a seemingly constant angry state, and would probably be more apt to take a swing at me than accept my offering of free booze.

So let's scrap that plan.

The second shot comes five minutes after the first, making me shake my head side to side as is runs down my throat. I already feel good. Sometimes booze is the way to go.

The third one comes faster than the second, as my lips greedily reach for the rim of the glass. My tongue feels momentarily numb before being awoken by the strong flavor of the liquor.

I've never been one to drink heavily. I could always do it if need be, but I never enjoyed it as much as my friends. My coping mechanism was always to internalize. To choke on my own thoughts, swallow them down deep, much like the way I'm doing to the drink now. But I don't do that anymore, there's no need.

I'm happy, despite this small detour to the bottle. Once in awhile, this just seems the way to go. It'll be a night of deep sleep if nothing else.

Christ, it's not even midnight.

I'm beginning to question things. Nothing on a grand scale, just silly things. I question curling being an Olympic sport. I question why gas prices are so expensive, although I already know the answer to that. I question why I never took certain roads, and at the same time, why I chose some of the ones I did take. All in all I have no regrets, truly.

Should I take a break before the fourth? Maybe. But why bother? I have nowhere to be right now, nor in the morning. I can afford to be slightly reckless, given the fact that I currently have nowhere to be reckless. I don't do that anymore.

Life's been good to me, I realize this now. And in the time it took me to think that, number four was tossed gleefully down my throat.

I've never wanted for anything, never gone hungry. I've never been homeless. I've never lived the life of someone on skid row. But somehow I feel like I identify with those people. But in truth, it's probably just the alcohol speaking for me.

I'm still on number four, but it's officially hit me. My mind has gone hazy. I'm fading. Tonight might be a good night for sleeping. Or I might wake up in a fog in a few hours and not be able to remember ever writing this. I've been honest here, and as the life lesson tells us, honesty is the absolute best policy. But does it make you a good writer? Maybe. But the alcohol helps a great deal.

Just ask Ernest or Hank.