Saturday 10/15/2005 11:46:00 PM

Pop! Beer numero quatro. That's a good night. Only four. Five is the bad. Four is okay.

Strange how not that long ago it used be three is okay. Four is bad. Strange indeed.

The rules change given the circumstance.

I've been a depressed sorta person all my life. My mother has an essay from when I was in the 1st or 2nd grade about how I liked ice cream because it made me forget my 'troubles'.

I fail to know what troubles I had at the age of 8. Other than being the fat kid who got picked on all the time. But that's all in the past. I'm long since much trimmer. And if I'm being picked on now, I'm unawares.

The point is, was, I've always been kinda down. Not the happy go lucky type. When I was really young, food served as my drug. And it served me well. As I got older, grew into my teens, anger became my sustenance. I was so angry. I hated everyone. Everything. Myself Included.

Then in my mid twenties I couldn't find it in myself to hate anymore. I was tired of hating things. Tired of being angry. And I gave in and just tried liking people again.

Big mistake.

You can like people all you want, doesn't mean they'll return the favor. I found myself wanting to like and be liked by people so much that I was in need of a way to fascilitate that.

Enter beer.

The patron saint of social rejects everywhere.

It let words come out that otherwise never would. It let situations occur that never should've. It opened the gates to the world, but even inside it, still I wasn't a presense. Just an echo of. And everyone I encountered knew that. It was obvious I didn't belong. Was just a tourist on a false courage Visa. Some sympathized and others took advantage.

And me, I got just what I'd asked for. And then some.

And then some more.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.