Be Prepared (redux)

6:45 AM Thursday morning

Just so you know- I’m too damn old to be hungover on a Thursday morning. But sometimes you just need to have 8 drinks in 3 hours because your unreasonably ethical psychiatrist won’t give you the good stuff. Well, obviously I had to turn to the streets to calm my shit down.

You see the thing is I have to have a conversation that I don’t want to have in roughly 12 hours.

You know how when you’re at the dentist…

(and if you’re a lazy asshole like me when it comes to dental hygiene – UPDATE: for the record, I’m not like Deliverance level fucked up teeth or anything. Not that it really matters because I’m not dating ever again)

…and it comes to the part where he or she has to scrape all the plaque off your teeth with that medieval torture thingie (I’m too lazy to google)? And the dentist is admonishing you for not cleaning your teeth properly as he or she “accidentally” jabs you in the gums with that sharp little fucker (accident my ass – they’re all sadists)? Well, I would rather be scraped for 40 days and 40 nights than have the conversation I’ve agreed to have.

The point I’m very badly making is my anxiety was so fucking through the roof for this Thursday nightmare that I couldn’t even handle being sober on Wednesday.

Wednesday 6:52 PM

Since my psychiatrist won’t hook me up and my dealer found Jesus, I have no other unhealthy way to calm my ass down. All I have left is good old fashioned booze. I rambled to this ramen joint I like (there are roughly a billion open now) and sidled up to the bar. I ordered some grub and complimented it with 3 different Japanese beers, 1 signature wine cocktail and an abomination called a Lycheetini (it was actually pretty good). So I’m 5 drinks in and the tab is getting a bit pricy so I head home.

As soon as my fat ass hits my desk chair I pop open the first of 4 consecutive Budweiser tallboys before I begin scanning Facebook for people who are bragging about how great their lives are while I suffer from jock itch and my only weekend plans are to sneak in edibles when I go to see Paddington 2 by myself.

So 9 drinks got me calm enough to beach myself face down on my bed fully dressed in my work clothes and with my damn shoes still on and I pass the fuck out.

Back to Thursday 6:45 AM

I’m hanging out with the usual suspects: cottonmouth, a splitting headache, and self-loathing.

I realize there’s a problem with my strategy to booze my way into serenity. I can’t drink at work and my living hell is right after work. For the record, I don’t think my boss would care if I brought in a pony keg to the office and sipped from it all day to maintain a soothing B.A.C. (Like a drunk wildebeest at an alcoholic watering hole). But then I realize the pony keg store doesn’t open till 10 and I need to be at work at 8. So my dream is dashed before I’ve even had a chance to take my dark as Black Death hangover shit yet.

BACs and ABCs and DUIs oh my!

I need to go shit, shower and shave and get my ass to work. Booze doesn’t pay for itself and I’m a straight-up scrub so you know my ass is living paycheck to paycheck.

Oh, and one last thing – if you hear about some drunk dude attacking his shrink during a family therapy session, that sure as fuck wasn’t me.


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