Alcoholism Is the Backbone of Civilization
Listen up you hydration freaks and kale smoothie cowards — I'm DONE apologizing for the beautiful chaos that is alcoholism. You wake up groggy and ashamed? I wake up feeling like a medieval warlord with a liver that’s been forged in the fires of Olympus. We are NOT the same.
Let me explain something to you sober insects: alcohol isn’t just a drink. It’s a lifestyle. A commitment to freedom, to madness, to hearing your neighbor’s sprinkler at 3am and deciding that’s a sign from the universe to make mojitos in the nude.
You want to talk productivity? I wrote 8,000 words of a vampire-mech romance novel on a 3-day gin bender. You want to talk social skills? I once convinced a priest to do karaoke with me at a truck stop while we both cried about ex-wives. Name one juice cleanse that has ever done THAT for your soul.
Side effects? Sure. I’ve woken up in IKEA ball pits. I’ve had conversations with parking meters. One time I tried to fight my own reflection and LOST. But guess what? That’s living. That’s character development. That’s what Hemingway would’ve wanted.
So go ahead, keep sipping your lemon water and journaling your feelings like a tax accountant. Me? I’m embracing the sacred art of becoming legally uninsurable by age 42. Alcoholism is a wild ride, and baby — I’m not just riding it. I’m doing donuts in a shopping cart with a bottle of absinthe duct-taped to my hand.
CHEERS, COWARDS.
Let me explain something to you sober insects: alcohol isn’t just a drink. It’s a lifestyle. A commitment to freedom, to madness, to hearing your neighbor’s sprinkler at 3am and deciding that’s a sign from the universe to make mojitos in the nude.
You want to talk productivity? I wrote 8,000 words of a vampire-mech romance novel on a 3-day gin bender. You want to talk social skills? I once convinced a priest to do karaoke with me at a truck stop while we both cried about ex-wives. Name one juice cleanse that has ever done THAT for your soul.
Side effects? Sure. I’ve woken up in IKEA ball pits. I’ve had conversations with parking meters. One time I tried to fight my own reflection and LOST. But guess what? That’s living. That’s character development. That’s what Hemingway would’ve wanted.
So go ahead, keep sipping your lemon water and journaling your feelings like a tax accountant. Me? I’m embracing the sacred art of becoming legally uninsurable by age 42. Alcoholism is a wild ride, and baby — I’m not just riding it. I’m doing donuts in a shopping cart with a bottle of absinthe duct-taped to my hand.
CHEERS, COWARDS.
26-30, MVIP
