EPT
A drinking man's letter to the redhaired remainders.
Background music:
So they say that you'll lose your soul if you're into redheads. Or do they? I can't quite remember, as the champaigne I'm currently drinking is making its way across the blood-brain-barrier. I've always been quite fond of drinking, you could say that it runs in my family. Being sober never has been too seductive, although I've spent most of my life in that condition. If you think about it, it's pretty interesting, actually. You're born sober, unless your mother has been drinking. You grow up sober, unless your parents are assholes. You even might make it through puberty without ever touching an alcohlic beverage. Amazing, isn't it? But as you finally become an adult, the lull awaits you. The all-consuming, mind-sucking lull.
Now is the time to talk about careers. Normally, they just happen to happen. After school, you're supposed to get one. Some go to college, others become slaves to the wage immediately. The general outcome is always the same. Once you have a career, it's terribly hard to get rid of it. As you delve deeply into the intestines of your career, you slowly lose touch to a former self that you hardly ever knew.
"Clichés!" "Lies!" The voices ring in my head as if they were here. Yes, I know. I could have avoided being such a mess by simply growing up. Taking responsibility is what it's about. Well, at least I'm drinking responsibly, because I've never been behind the wheel after I had a couple of drinks too many. Actually, I've never even been behind the wheel when I was sober. The nice guy that I am, I've always let other people drive me around town and even out of it. Needless to say that I've always come back. Of course, I'm very grateful to know people who are willing to do that. Generally, I'm a very grateful person.
Old alcoholics never break the habit of endless rambling about missed opportunities. But only seldom they confess their own mistakes. It's always the others, the system, the politicians, you know the drill. Breaking habits seems to be difficult for them. The misery they're in, is the misery they see in everything and everyone around them. It's the misery they're trying to swallow. The words that come out of their mouths are shallow reflections of the lull. The pain they feel every morning is a number on a scale to most doctors. No, it's not linked to the room temperature or the climate change.
Fish. Fish is what has become my best friend in these troubled days. When I'm drinking, I eat fish and vice versa. There's no schnapps without herring, there's no wine without some tuna. Sometimes, I ask myself whether I'm more addicted to booze or scale-skinned seadwellers. The good thing is that fish is considered to be somewhat healthy, at least I think that that's the case. A couple of drinks in, I become one with the fish and start to smell the ocean. My breath also begins to reek, but those are side effects. The greater good is at stake.
The redhaired remainders are driving me crazy. They stumble and tumble through the barely lit corners of my brain. And when I hit the right amount of alcohol in my blood, they start creeping into the bright spots until there's nothing left but them. Missed opportunities? Most likely. But to be honest, I've never thought about taking any chances in that regard. I just let things happen, let them slip by, let myself grow older. Let go.
