“Boy, I need a drink,” he exclaimed as he wiped his brow.
How he wished he could grab a cold, refreshing beer after a long day’s work, but alas he has stopped drinking.
As he reminisces about the good ol’ days of drinking and partying with his friends, he could not help but hear Bo Diddly, Waylon, and Willie as they sang the songs of his past.
We used to be clever, he thought to himself as he looked back into his past.
Remembering how he and his friends would sneak, like banditos, into the bunkhouse and steal alcohol from the keg. Yes, those were the crazier days, the days, when he had no cares and just wanted to have fun.
Some days he wished he were back in those days,begone the responsibilities and he could return to freedom.
Hell, he would not even mind having to go back to a diet of Ramen noodles and bologna sandwiches if it meant that he did not have to deal with all the stress, with nothing to bring him back to “reality.”
He just never could stop at just one, once he got that cold, refreshing liquid flowing over his lips and throat, it was as if he had flipped a switch. A switch that said I need more, more beer, more liquor, more of anything that makes me feel numb.
Numb of the pain, numb of the pain, numb of the stress that he felt through the day. He didn’t care how it made him change, he didn’t care how people saw him, because to him it was all just a show, not real at all, it was as though he was in one continuous dream.
When he woke up from the dream, he felt the shakes, the panic, and the withdrawal that came from the fall.
As with any drug, alcohol had taken a toll on him.
He knew he had to grow up before he lost everything and turned into a beach bum who believed that abookmaker just might be the answer to all of his problems.
Hoping not to land hard on the concrete as the landlord threw him out on his bippy!
I suppose I shouldn’t be blasting off at the mouth complaining when it could be so much worse. He thought.
It is better to wake up at home on his pillow, then turning his head and spitting out the petals ofbegonias, as he sneezed out the pollen that he breathed in all those drunken nights.
Not to mention the fact that his mom would beat his butt when she saw the mess he made of her flowerbed.
He could no longer bastardize himself by drinking, because if he did he may be not be here today.
He still finds himself belching, as he drinks his soda and bisecting people with his words as he picks them apart. But hey, he can only work on one thing at a time, right?