...Because I drink too much. I swear on Christ's wrinkled scrotum that Foster Cat Dexter just gave me a dirty look because I stopped the frontal-cat-face-rubbing to go get a drink.
Well...Fuck the cat. I've disappointed better than him -- real humans, most of them.
It's all worth it for that warm sense of well-being; that sweet spot between realizing you shouldn't drive and becoming a spastic lunatic -- or at least acting weird enough to make right-thinking people nervous.
That is the zone I presently occupy and in 30 minutes, it will be gone.
For the next half hour I will see my potential to become the wild-eyed anarchist I always suspected I am. I will fully believe it's possible to disconnect myself from the system, set up an armed compound in the woods and grow weed to support myself, a couple of dogs and a insidious whiskey habit.
At the very least, I could open up a bar/book store with comfy armchairs and a juke box that plays both the Jesus And Mary Chain and Dean Martin.
I could start working out again while getting a mail-order doctorate in philosophy from Western University. I could learn to play the piano while trying to restart the Rhinoceros Party of Canada. I could plant a vegetable garden while maintaing an anti-Papist website.
For the next...well it's down to ten minutes now ... I can vividly imagine becoming the man I was supposed to be. And since I've only got ten minutes left before I start brooding or become violent, I'm not gonna waste it on you fuckers. I hope you are not too disappointed.
Rest In Peace, Britt.