regret

Dear Listeners

The occilation between the glamor and horror of alcoholism continues in my life.

Life is confounding. I admit I have squandered more opportunity than quite a few in my life, and there is a bohemia in the back of the chinesse food restaurant in the lounge. Hell, there’s even a future there. The catch is there is no past. My brief stints in opulence, I always took time to drink in the lounge. The jobs didn’t last, but the lounge did.

DTing is a crushing experience. God uses the human mind against it’s self. Beyond the physical shaking, fever neasia and irritability, the mind produces a litany of deafening reasons why one should give up. The emotions listen and one can only cry then. The other night I franticly beat a imaginary spiders in the curtains.

Life is an experiment to a thinker (saying one is a thinker by no means implies one is good at it). Oscar Wilde said, ‘To be a writer is to be a spectator in one’s own life.’ I think writing allows me the distance from my own pain and regret to maintain. And I am ok with that. The popular image of some great person lying on their death bed being asked, ‘do you have any regrets?’ and the fucker answers, ‘no!’ makes me want to pull their plug. If you believe you’ve done nothing wrong in your life, you’re probably dying before your overbearing smothering spoiling mother. I don’t regret my alcoholism. Nor my indigent state. I don’t regret my independence. I do regret things I did and said to women in the past. I regret what I have stole from the living. But I don’t regret my alcoholism. If you could have met the now dead I have sat and wept with, you too wouldn’t regret those moments.