A Mid-Winter Night’s Drunken Stupor: Drunken Lunacy and a Shitty Mentality

“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my logic as intoxicated as I am right now!” the madman yells out to a half drunken, completely stoned crowd of all of six, maybe seven people.  I hadn’t bothered counting. 

Don’t Let Me Down by the Beatles was playing through the television.  Conversations of this and that, here and there.  Ranging from a lost childhood, an innocence that can’t be relived.   It went unappreciated at the time… but in these moments of beautiful nostalgia, we found a since of common ground.  Everyone has their own story.  Even the quiet, completely reserved drunkard typing these very words. 

“I made the world what it is today through my infectious personality,” he shouts.

“Pass that shit!” comes from across the room. 

Here it comes again, I can literally hear the thoughts of those that have heard these same stories.  So well practiced for new company that the familiars have to pretend to be amused.  We do our best. 

            It was the same story, on a different drunken night.  

Sangria is magical.  I feel like my legs have gone numb, my arms are extremely heavy… the only thing to do now is listen.  My vision has betrayed me before, but my ears work pretty well as long as I pause for a second and pay attention. 

Random thoughts…

            God, I really want some fucking shrooms.  Hallucinogenic ones. 

These crazy people are considering driving in a drunken delirium, but I can’t say I blame them.  The grease-covered hash browns, the burnt golden-brown waffles and pancakes, the half cooked eggs.  Goddamn delicious.

“That was deep, bro!” he shouts, obviously being sarcastic because the madman is shouting… something or other.  Once you hear a story so many times—you zone out too much of the night— you get lost in your own thoughts. 

Maybe it’s the wine? 

Maybe it’s the weed? 

            Gibberish.  It’s all gibberish. 

I’m pretty sure I need another drink, but I can’t exactly walk right now.  Sangria is magical… but then paralysis sets in.  I am doomed to stumble through the crowd of unamused spectators of this maddening spectacle. 

Shit. 

The wine is setting in.

More and more.

Second by second. 

            The cigarette smoke so thick in the air, people’s eyes were beginning to water and breathing was nearly impossible to do without hacking and wheezing.  Dirty carpets.  Dirty couches.  Dirty people.  My kind of night as long as the alcohol keeps flowing to carry my mind away to better places.   

 

“To gain your o…

“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
—Allen Ginsberg