I drink for comfort. The drink is the only comfort I have after so many long years of suffering and insanity. It’s the only way for me to connect with others and whisk a woman to bed. The warm whiskey melts away the frozen layers of stoicism that leave me bitter and dry. I can feel some passion, some hurt, some happiness, and all the sadness of the world and those around me as I become more inebriated.
I drink because I hate myself. I hate my shitty lot. Repressed memories and paperwork set alight years ago, fading everyday into obscurity. I don’t want to think about that day anymore.
I drink to forget.
They gave us the results after days of testing, they were worried I was going crazy at first.
“Genius”, “special mind”, “next prodigy”, “college by 15”, “lonely”, “bullied”, “bad idea”, “he’ll do okay”.
That fat bitch. The principal and my teacher did not want to influence my mother but that stupid, ugly, fat bitch.
Stupid bitch didn’t want to think the son of some trash-picking third-world immigrant could be a certified genius. She was just a fucking translator, I could do a better job and have been doing so since I was out of diapers.
But no, a life of normalcy.
A strive to be normal.
I’m not normal, but I’m certainly not special.
If I were, I’d be somewhere else.
An intelligent man would have dropped all that deadweight and moved on.
I don’t have the heart for it, though; I choose to drag these corpses along the highway.
I drink because I’m pathetic.
I drink because I could be great, and many say I am. But I can’t let it go.
I wanted to be great. I gave up on that by now.
I still have those testing results in my bookcase, rotting.
I’ve been spending all my luck avoiding death.
Good enough for me.
Tomorrow is another day.