From the journals of a drunk #2

Give me the strength to accept the things I can not change.

I. Am. A. Drunk.

I am not proud of it. And I don’t deny it.

Yes, I am a drunk.

Let me fish out my hand book of excuses real quick,

To justify inebriating the parts of me that are able to comprehend common sense.

I am gifted like that.

I will stare in the mirror and drink.

Because, I have my father’s eyes.

I will walk out side and drink.

Because, how dare others breath fine while I am fucking suffocating inside!

I will go to work and drink.

Because, I need to cope with the stress of mind numbing, soul sucking cooperate.

Then I will end my day with a drink.

To celebrate not jumping in front of the bus.

To pat myself on the back for getting through another day drinking alcohol instead of a bleach.

One for my health,

One for my friends,

One for my foes,

Now that “a drink” has led to “drinks”

I fleet.

I float.

I am free.

I will walk in zig zags and contemplate,

I will relate to Bukowski's blue bird.

I will compare myself with Hemingway’s old man.

In the hazy state of intoxication,

My inflated ego as big as a mountain,

I will go back to making the same mistake.

And find myself in the arms of a man that looks down on me.

Just to spite myself when I awake in the morning.

Adding more “because,” to my hand book.

I am excellent like that.

Crafting sentences to rationalize my bad habit.

To excuse myself in to the pits of self loathing.

And begin again with,

“I am a drunk.”