I fear that my benders have become less and less spaced out. That my awakeness resembles an inexorable march towards obliterating my brain cells. Drifting, relentlessly building a portrait of a life squandered. Moments of lucidity only serve as bridges for the support of my true master - the juice. He demands a well fed stomach, a full pocket, and a clear temperament - at least to start. The only thing that keeps me holding on is the mantra that prevents me from going my father's way. "I promise myself not to leave this earth the same way pops did."
In The Naked Lunch, Burroughs says that junk is the ideal product, the ultimate merchandise. No sales talk necessary. The client will crawl through a sewer and beg to buy. The face of evil is always the face of total need. No, I say, I'm a social drinker, not an addict. I've never had a beer by myself in the comfort of my home. Binge is my preferred style, ideally through a two day stretch of inebriation. I'd never crawl through a sewer for a short of tequila but these weekend escapades are suspiciously consistent. My genetic susceptibility to liquor and my crippling desire to be loved is my junk.
No, they say, you're a social drinker, not an addict. You should see what a true addict is. My adored comrades, always preaching, always pouring, blind to the logs in their own eyes. I'm here with them now. I look around and think: they all seem to have it all together. I suppose, I do seem to have it all together too. The difference is, their party lifestyle barely takes away from their chosen way of life - that familiar likeness of the contemporary philistine. I'm offered another shot, and I comply, smiling. Another clank, another swig. I smile because, face down under my palm, I'm cradling a set of aces, a promise that I am not going to break.