Joining the Assholes

So I finally became an asshole. No I didn’t buy a car. I didn’t have a child. Seeing as I’m male that would be tough. I didn’t invest in any company that ruins the planet. Hell, I didn’t even get a full time job. Not even at Starbucks despite the fact that I’m trying to constant flog them here. Buy some bugjuice tasting Starbucks people. Tell them I sent ye.

No, I stopped drinking. What an asshole. In a way I hate myself for it. For one thing, I’m not cool anymore. That’s the main reason I started to drink. Seeing as I have 4 grandparents and both parents who claimed to be alkies, drinking was a major risk for me. Or at least I thought it was especially as my step-father told me, “one drop and I’d be a raving lunatic.”

That actually didn’t happen. We just stumbled around a bit. I kept pissing thinking, “I’m drunk, I’m drunk.” Then we left for this shitty diner. I didn’t know that Erie, PA even had ghettos until I started drinking. Then we listened to Oliver’s army for about 20 times before the guy who provided me with alcohol kept telling me how sorry he felt for me and how shitty my life was because I was from Erie and I was poor. But then again, he repeated himself. Whatever. I didn’t care. I was drunk.

Over the years, my drinking slowly increased. After a few years, I was drinking daily, and I quit my job. This was not related to drinking. That is, quitting my job was not related to drinking as much as that my boss was an asshole. Certainly the times when I came to work in a less coherent state of mind, I was fine emotionally to the point that co-workers who tried to stab me in the back, well I laughed in their face. I thought, “I feel great, why bother getting into these kind of mind games.”

Alas, I was too responsible so I usually went to work sober which was a mistake because I realized what an asshole my boss was (he does not drink). So I quit.

Then I started drinking in earnest, and it was great. That lasted for a long, long time. Drinking, drinking. Great, great. I was loving the part of the night after 5 PM which I had alloted to “Drink Time” until midnight or so. After that, the next morning, it was “Coffee Time” until 5Pm which became “Drinking Time” again. It was neat having two drinks for various times of the day.

Then I joined a kooky religion that said no drinking because it makes you an idiot. And idiots suffer the most. Ug, I just ignored that part and drank anyway. It was great. I even meditated drunk. No problem.

Still there was this little part of my mind that told me I should stop drinking. Not cut down, but stop because I am not good at half measures. I quit for a month at a time, and I learned a few things.

1. Non-drinkers are social outcasts. Like non-blondes they are just not as fun.

2. I love drinking, and I miss it. All the time. I love beer. It is so nice to have.

3. I got a lot more work done when I was not drinking. Not waking up feeling wierd was a nice feeling.

Things got really fucked up for me when I started to getting that hung over feeling the night of drinking. No, no. Hangover the next day. Fun now. It got to the point where I was limited my drinking that night because I could all ready feel the hangover. That stopped (most) real hangovers and allowed me to continue my 7 day a week drinking schedule. In addition, when I was on “Coffee Time” whenever something bad happened to me, I would just visualize a beer bottle. That was my happy place.

Finally, due to my retarded hypochondria, I felt like I had liver damage kicking in. I especially felt sick when I tried to take the shit from the bottom of a fermenter and freeze it to create beersickles. Still despite the persistent liver throb, I had a good time the last time I bottled my last batch of beer. I blasted the pixies and stood around spraying beer all over. I broke a bottle and spilled beer all over a case. Then I tossed that crap outside. I stood there in the kitchen having all these visions of all the art projects I’d get done when the bottling was over. What a great time.

As time went on, my liver hurt more and more. I don’t know if it’s actually my liver. I should say my abdomen. But I don’t really care to see a doctor about this so if I say it’s my liver, it is. Who is to say different?

Soon everytime I drank I had a liver pain. I thought it might be due to crappy homebrew so I bought a case of Lion’s Head and drank that for a while. Fun, fun. But even the old lion made my liver hurt. It got to the point that after I quit a sip of beer, even a drop made my liver hurt.

My step-father was right in a twisted way. I didn’t become a crazy alcoholic from a sip of beer. Rather my liver hurt, and I didn’t feel like drinking for a long, long time.

I feel like my body has this anti-alcoholic drug that it makes called Antibuse which makes an alcoholic feel sick when he drinks. But I don’t need any drugs. I just feel sick all by myself.

I guess I should be happy because this is saving me from hangovers, cirhossis (if I don’t have it all ready), and saying stupid stuff during parties.

But I feel like such an asshole. I have to sit there and explain my whole position on drinking: I want to drink, but I can’t because I have this liver pain. No, I’m not sure it’s my liver. No, I don’t want to see a god-damned doctor. Yes, I want to drink. No, don’t pour that I can’t have it. No not a sip it will make my stupid liver ache. Yes, I know I sound like an asshole.

Having to stand there all pompous with my arms crossed while all my friends sit there and get blitzed is a real downer. I feel so dumb. I want to drink in a way. In another way, I realize drinking is a waste of time and should be completely banned. Nobody should drink. Ug, what a moral moron.

I’ve given up. I realize I’ve joined the assholes, and it sucks.

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