memories

The problem with sobriety is this: when you do shit, you remember it later. And sometimes that's a great thing. You want to remember the time you got to bang Sophia Loren in the back of a Fiat in Italy. You want to remember your first glass of a fine scotch or your first sweet car.

You probably don't want to remember how you got herpes or you caught your brother giving it to your wife good and proper over your kitchen counter. You probably don't always want to remember all the friends you had that died or the friends you wish had died because they were ballin' your wife too. You probably don't want to remember that time you got shot buying herion in New York city or how you ended up sleeping in a dumpster and some hobo fuckwit pissed on your favorite bowler.

No these are the things people like us drink to forget. And if you drink good and long and hard enough, you start to forget all kinds of things, like where you parked your car or what ever happened to Baby Jane or even where they fuck are my pants? Goddamn fucking pants..

Anyway I forgot what I was saying.

I spend a lot of time in dark lounges. It's for the best really. I'm killing my brain cells so they don't remember dumb bullshit that's happened to me in the past. Because being bitter just eats at you, so might as well swallow your medicine and head for the horse track, because someday, you too are going to die. I sure as fuck don't want some squeaky clean record with St Peter to show for it. I want to live until I die and then I want to forget about it.

I'm not really sure why all the squares in the world really want to live all healthy and shit and remember every Goddamned thing anyway. I mean what fun is their life? You wake up every day next to the same person, you shower and shave, put on a monkey suit, kiss your little darlings goodbye and get in your generic sedan and go sit in a box for eight hours. Maybe if you're feeling particularly saucy you stop off to bowl with the guys or grab a light beer on your way home. You get home, that same broad and those kids are still there at home. You eat meatloaf. You put on some silk pjs and read the paper, hear about the wife's headache for the 890th night in a row and you go to sleep and if you're really lucky, you get a dream about Marilyn Monroe in there before you wake up and do it all over again.

A life like that would drive me to drink... well more than I do. So maybe that's it. Maybe the people telling me I've got it all wrong just want me to be as miserable as they are. And to that I say "fuck it." Pass the scotch. I want to forget I even thought about this shit.