Litany of a drunken guy

I’m drunk this time while writing this.

For one, I want to test whether I still can have clear thoughts to be able to write decently; not that I normally have clear thoughts when I write. And two, the verisimilitude of this activity to realism, portraying the rawness of thoughts when the mind does not edit itself is tempting.

Nothing compares to the feeling of being drunk every once in a while. The artificial sense of freedom and slackening of one’s inhibition are enough reasons to make drinking and going wasted afterward so popular among people in their twenties. I seldom party and dance the night out. And during these rare cases when I do I can go totally wild. At least wild as I define it. And during these rare opportunities do I become and act like my age.

And since I am lucky enough not to work on days like these, I have all the spare time to go out and drown myself in the not-so-dark abyss of abandonment. I consume a substantial amount of alcohol enough to cloud my better judgment.

I become a rabid animal on a prowl ready to hunt for the next prey. I move as if all the muscles in my body are on an attack mode, ready to contract and hurl my 6-foot self to whoever is foolish enough to challenge the supremacy of my rule.

And so I drink even more, fearful that the time spent resting and not gulping alcohol will return me to my senses, and transform me back to my docile, contemplative, and quiet self. I want this feeling to last until I reach a point when all I can do is to gnarl because of pleasure, puke my gut out until I pass out, lie on the floor, and let the person beside me worry about what to do with the pathetic fellow choking in his entrails and snoring as if he’s the happiest man in the world.

But I can’t. I suffer from hyperacidity.

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