Party Pooper

Back when I was quitting drinking (barely even out of the DTs yet), I encountered a series of enabling women who tried to drag me out to bars. What a fuckery life is! When I was drinking I couldn’t get laid out of a bar if my life depended on it, but now a parade of bar sluts present themselves to me; a chorus line of assholes beckoning me back into the drink.

Interestingly, they almost always used the same line: “Oh, come on! You don’t have to drink to have a good time!”

In one of those all too rare moments in life, I nailed my response to this the first time I heard it, and it has been my go to reply since:

“In a bar I sure as fuck do.”

And I don’t drink, so connect the fuckin dots on why I’m not coming out. I’m glad that you can feel special in your ability to enjoy the bar environment without alcohol, you vibrant, unique flower, you! Lucky you to have a brain chemistry that allows enjoyment of that scene without enhancement. Or, perhaps, all the attention from the drunks continually trying to get into your pants has something to do with it. Either way, whatever you situation might be, I’ll thank you not to tell me about mine. Particularly not in an attempt to use me to play out some complicated pathological drama about addiction’s role in your life.

That these people actually regarded this abuse as some kind of support is the ultimate in douchebaggery.

I’m sorry, but you and your scene are just not very interesting. That you always congregate in alcohol distribution venues too noisy have a conversation in should maybe be a clue. It doesn’t hold up well in, say, a park, does it? So don’t go telling me it isn’t about the booze and the drugs, even if you aren’t partaking yourself.

However, if I’m missing the signals on a play to get me into bed, then let me suggest the unsolicited blowjob as a more direct route. I’m just saying: that kind of overture really cuts through a lot of red tape.

Otherwise, have fun. Maybe give me a call when you’re doing something that doesn’t revolve entirely around something that will kill me.

A Good Year

When people talk about enjoying a nice cold beer or a glass of wine with dinner, I really have no fucking clue what the hell they’re talking about. Being sober, what I really miss about alcohol is getting so shitfaced that I come to the next day wedged under my sofa with a bunch of cracked knuckles. I’m not joking either; that shit was a lovely vintage.