Monday, February 3, 2014

cookie i think you're tame

See, you look at things like the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman and these young lads who've died from neknomination and you almost feel bad, almost embarrassed for your own restraint, for your fucking pussy moderation, this drinking to almost always only mild inebriation or less, this once-had-an-eight-cigarette-a-day-habit kind of bullshit that isn't even worth talking about in one way or another because it's just nothing and it would be more interesting if you'd never done anything at all, just sat there all righteous while the rest of them smoked soft drugs and said I don't see the point I don't see the point at all will you pass the Club Orange thanks
You are, of course, beloved by your
wife and
your house
and your 
cats and your
And your 
friends and
yet you will drink to excess on a Friday because it is a Friday and you like it and you have the money and you sit on your couch on a Sunday with your rooibos tea and you say it's an idiot tax it's a Darwin Award it's their own fucking fault it wouldn't happen to me it's a shame it's a shame he was so talented it's all those films we'll never get it's a shame they were old enough to know better their mams and dads and all their friends and i remember him from when he was in Scent of a Woman he had money and talent and kids and he didn't need to do that and it can only be great being them and didntioncegivemyfifteenyearoldbrotherabottleofabsolutvodkathathedrankinonegofromapintglassoncetoimpresshismatewhowasstayingoveronlyforhisvomittowakehimwhilehewaschokingonitsoitsfineitdoesnthappentomeorhim

3 comment(s):

Tessa said...

I emerged whole and (relatively) sane from the 60s and 70s because a bad fairy cursed me at birth with common sense. Whenever some of the gang thought it would be great gas to go to Katmandu, or check out the drug scene at the 'Dilly, I would picture what my life might be, a few months or years down the road, if I went along, and then I would quietly go back to my humdrum existence, with a job and a regular wage. I'm alive, I don't smoke or do drugs any more, and I drink to moderation (most of the time), while a goodly proportion of the old gang are dead, or wrecked. Still, I often wonder what I missed by being chicken-hearted.

Radge said...

I, strangely, never wonder what I've missed by being chicken hearted in terms of booze (never on a work night now, except I work weekends again, so never on a Monday) or drugs (which I never chanced) but something similar to the themes of this post still gnaws at me. What a ramble.

Andrew said...

One thing I've learnt from the excesses of others is that you can act in the most appalling, obnoxious, selfish ways and somehow get away with it because being fucked out of your head is considered a valid excuse, and, if no-one tells you exactly what you were like, you'll probably never realise - thereby bypassing the whole nasty guilt thing.