The Drinker

dscf1854I am drinking again. I should probably abstain from writing because I may say things that I regret and mis-spell words that I know how to spell, all to well. But what the hell- I always say things that I regret and I often mis-spell words that I know all to well. I am not a good speller nor am I a good keeper of secrets so I mine as well go ahead and write on. Is not alcoholic inebriation one of the better causes of literary fame? From the beginning of time authors like Homer, Hemingway, Joyce, Lessing and Fitzgerald have gotten away with writing things while drunk- and we now refer to these writings as literary classics! So I mine as well take a shot at literary fame while drinking. I certainly can not seem to achieve it while sober so allow me a minute to take another sip of my wine and then I will continue to write.

I have been drinking a half a bottle of wine to a bottle of wine on a nightly basis for more years than I care to remember. My love affair with wine and beer is frenetic and wild (and causes me to do things that I often later regret). Of course we have taken a few weeks apart now and then but my inability to exist without beer and wine in my life quickly drives me back into a week long binge followed by a nightly bottle of wine. I love booze. It is the only over the counter medication that brings forth the fruits from my vine. I achieve more inner peace after two glasses of wine than I have from five years of regular meditation. My mind seems defenseless against two glasses of wine or more- and drinking for me is fair retribution for the hell my mind puts me through on a daily basis. I don’t mean to be negative but when I drink I am able to achieve an objective distance from my sober mind that makes me wonder how I have not yet become a raging alcoholic. I suppose it is my need for control, or some semblance of sanity that I make myself stop right when I have had too much to drink…….but after twenty plus years of almost daily intoxication, it is a wonder that I still have a rational mind at all.

I have been meditating a lot on “what if?” scenarios the past few weeks. “What if clocks stopped functioning?” “What if the oceans suddenly dried up?” “What if my sister turned into my brother?” “What if vegetables could talk?” “What if I was 38 years old and financially independent?” I like to entertain these fantasies because it show me the expanse of possibilities that are out there. My normal anxiety ridden life is filled with all these possibilities, and I realize that when I get stuck in my anxiety I am unable to open the bird cage of my mind. “What if I was sober for longer than a month?” “What if I loved working?” “What if I had no fear?” “What if I was so generous that I gave away all the clothes I owned while walking down the street?”

Okay, I am getting a bit ahead of myself. I have far surpassed my ordinary faculties for imaging the impossible. This tells me I may have had one to many glasses of wine. I am often a very pragmatic almost middle aged male- but when I drink a particular screw becomes loose in my head. This may be why it is not such a good idea that I write now. Currently I am banging on my keyboard and typing with a hurried speed that is desperately trying to keep up with the thoughts that want to come pouring out of my head. But maybe I should hold back. Maybe I should not say everything that I want to say. I should just pick up my glass of wine and go sit outside and watch the sun set. In the morning I will be happier that I did so rather than finishing this blog entry and exposing all of my futile insecurities and transgressions to the world. “Just leave certain things that do not need to be said alone,” my grandpa always told me when I told him about the first blow job I received with a hair dryer. He maybe right….maybe I should know when enough is enough. I am overworked, tired and in a state of fragility- no great writing comes from this particular space. So, I am just going to pick up my glass of wine (refill it), go outside and watch the sunset- before I say anything else that I will later regret.


  1. Ha. I have been nown to misspell the odd word when drunken to. You are a riot, talking vegetables, hairdryer blowjobs (How many times did you tell your grandpa that story, I love those subtle implication jokes hidden in your perfect sentences, just one word ‘always’ transforms the joke.) You rock Randall.

  2. Cheers to Randall who gets blow jobs from hairdryers, rings stuck up his bum from Asian masseurs, and makes me laugh my head off.

    Love Renee xoxoxo

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