zen and the art of getting drunk alone

there was a fire outside and i was alone so i decided to get drunk. i'de been listening to the new interpol record on my alarm-maker and was tired of laying on my bed, so i set myself to a bottle of bacardi and coke on the coffee table, popped in a karate record and leaned back on the living room sofa, content as a man without dreams.

the fire was across the carpark in the next building. the rum tasted good. it had been awhile. i felt like reading, so i did.

II.

so much can be said about the underapreciated art of getting drunk alone. how many times it's saved my life. how many nights i've known it was the safe way to live, like when the door click she left me was playing rabid repeat, or it was too late for smiles and arthur rimbaud was pounding at my door or mahler's knife was at my throat and i forgot to breathe.

you have a choice. you can learn to get drunk alone sometimes or your life can be just another billy joel record. and tonight was my night. so i stayed up late and got battlefield drunk. me and john fante.

3 a.m. wide awake, and where the fuck are you?

it was a good night, a good life. still is.

learn to love this life. it's yours.

2003-04-24 | 8:20 p.m.
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