There are many negative sides to not drinking, many. If you ask me there are plenty more reasons to drink than not, but my liver might have something to say about this, indeed, my liver has convinced my brain to take not just one day off from drinking a week but two. This is all very positive in one respect, but in others, it’s horrific.
Apart from the fact that twice a week an evening my mind is going to have to face up to the realities of the sober self, as opposed to the egotistical one that visits me after a few glasses and leads me to view myself with unadulterated optimism bejewelled with the trappings of future success that will come to pass when ‘they’ understand. The sober self has to actually pull his fucking finger out, and if he isn’t in a position to do that, worry about not pulling his finger out, be aware of time slipping between his fingers and consider the pointlessness of existence, it’s a fucking scream I can tell you.
But not is all lost, there are distracters in the form of Radio 4, TV, tea, cigarettes, good food (which in itself can be problematic because good food needs good wine, right?) and of course Myfwt. This is all well and good when one is awake, in fact, the further one goes into the evening the better one feels about abstaining, a sense of achievement and well being begins to detract from the desire to feeling a bit squiffy. No hangover in the morning! And here is the problem. To get to the morning one has to sleep.
When you’re arseholed sleep is relatively simple, but stone cold sober it can go either way. Last night was such an occasion. Could I sleep? Could I fuck. It was a cold night, the duvet didn’t seem to fit, the little bits of exposed flesh felt as if they were being sandblasted by hail, my limbs didn’t fall comfortably pulling my skeleton against the natural forces of physics, my fucking head, my pulsing blood filled cranium, was crushed into the pillow twisting my neck at every turn. Inside my mind thoughts raced in and out like rats risking it for chocolate in busy kitchen, I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t settle, I couldn’t fucking sleep. I’ve no idea what time I finally took off, some 3 or so hours after I’d laid down? Oddly, I’m not feeling that tired today, this may have a lot to do with it being Friday, sunny (albeit cold) and January is finally behind me.
The weekend is punctuated with things to do in between swathes of freedom. The only concrete plans are to see a flat tomorrow afternoon and lunch on Sunday with Andrea, Myfwt, my bro and his missus. Needless to say I’ll have to shop at some point and I intend to have a drink tonight with some friends, though at this stage this isn’t fixed.
Despite my rather solemn entry today, I’m actually feeling alright so do join me for more japes and capers on Monday. In the meantime I’ll leave you with some classic, pioneering Death (I doubt many/any of you will like it but there is nothing wrong with trying, the clean living lead singer Chuck Schuldiner succumbed the name of his band through cancer) and the usual Friday list which has been cut back on account of some the upsetting Google searches that have lead cunts to this site in error. The remaining list is just baffling.
Have lovely weekends.
st johns umbrella
drink water belly bloat wank
john torquato cta
girls with tit tattoos
naked bears pics
man fucks hen
how to describe grien flag
think “jennifer dark”
two pints of lager and a packet of crisp
Pennsylvania State Treasurer R. Budd Dwy
speed triple drawings
what is solpadine
britney flowers hat tits glassed