Day 17 (Pornographic Democracy)

Romney’s Victory and my inevitable departure from my attempt at a detox week cause me to troll old love letters to see if I was always this way:  

It has been but a fortnight since we last spoke, alas the war does not go well for us. Colonel Jim Beam had put up a good fight, but in the end he fell, empty, and joined his five identical brothers in a cardboard box. He is drunk but not forgotten… who am I kidding, he is totally forgotten.

Alpacas are the new gold, or so conservative radio tells me. They will be used to service the future crisis gardens when we are all peanut farmers and living The Book of Revelations. Naturally Jimmy Carter will have a head start. I guess I like political letters, or am a one trick pony….

…. shit, I suppose there is no cure.   

Day 14 (Hangover in Harlem)

Some mornings are better than others, and some morning are actually mid-afternoons. All the kings horses, and all the kings men couldn’t put my head together again. I have two sets of prescription glasses by my bed, and I don’t think I am capable of seeing the world any better through either of them.

Bright flashes of light in a pitch black room, as I hunt for the aspirin, only to find it in the Saturday slot of a pill organizer I never bought. I certainly hope my daily meds for Sunday are better. In the Shalem Aleichem standard I am making myself a breakfast mimosa: 

voice in my head: But you have no orange juice.
me: It’s ok we will use Jim beam instead.
Voice in my head: but you have no champagne.
me: It’s ok we will use Jim beam instead.
(takes drink)
Me: this is what they call a light morning drink?  

Age old debates arise out of the sewer of my consciousness, if all the other cups are in the sink, and I refuse to do the dishes, is it ok to chase the aspirin with a sippy cup full of whiskey?