I don’t like the collision of syllables within words like “wrong” or “loser” or “failure”. But yet they seem to be near impossible to avoid. As a modern American those honest words of assessment are a dirty dirty language. And they are my curse – wretched scapegoats linger around me, in the darkness, like the “real” devil and the “real” black magic.  The words are not only the in the vocabulary of entitlement that flows freely in America, but they also run through my veins like white and red blood cells. So this is why, when referring to my premature end to Soburary, we must not look to these adjectives for solace, we must see beyond, out into the absence of shape.

I didn’t end my sobriety because of underlying compulsions or a failure to acknowledge my ethnic heritage. It was far more simple and benign than that. I did it because a friend that I hadn’t seen in a while wanted to hang out. A few months had flown by since the last time we raged and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

Once the conversation fired up, reconnecting the dots of our lives was easy and didn’t require strain. Timeless friendship is found in conversations like these. Sure, a month or two had gone by, but time has no beginning and end, and all change in between is relative. It was a rare time and adult beverages. She is one of my favorite people. A Classic. Re-kindling of that “Drunk Glory,” we lived at twenty-two doesn’t have a time constraint. The Glory abides in the now. So why not celebrate a night out with some good ol’ libations? We needed to take a trip back to the old days of week-long benders and delusional grandeurs.

I can be foolhardy at times and I try to take the salacious smacks of reality in stride. We drank a few beers and called other friends to see if we could round up the old crew to no avail. She didn’t have that early twenties fire in her eyes that night. We are in our late twenties and wild nights only remain at weddings and birthday parties and holidays and occasional randoms. Life is starting to tame in a casual fashion.  Some say we are dead inside and some maybe right, but I think that is a bit short sighted. Eventually, for most of us, we watch the hair fall to the floor, the creases in our skin begin to deepen, and we slowly witness the deterioration and finite nature of our bodies. We are becoming human. We are no longer gods. And that means those hangovers fuck us unwillingly and without pity, and the porcelain god holds us tight for hours after binges of any sort.

If you are still in your early 20’s or in your teens, I hope that I am not depleting your enthusiasm for the rest of the decade. Somethings stay the same. Not many. Other things will be better, some, worse. Either way, you will be different. I promise you. And if you aren’t different from 21 by the time you’re thirty, you might want to have a sit down with a therapist or god and discuss what it is that you are fighting.

I called it an early March for nothing or the potential of reliving the past and I don’t care. I am sorry if you were hoping I would hold out and have some sort of epic revelation at the end. But all that happened was a dose of ageism. The friend I gave into the round bottle for went home at 9pm to let her dog out. The mongrel pees on her carpet if she isn’t there to let the little fucker out. Adults do things: like calling a night early more and more as they get older. Those responsibilities pile up and the spirit we once had evolves into something like a dog relieving itself on a kitchen floor or the roommate’s bed. Soon enough, we become that animal that needs help to piss or feel comfortable. Believe me, her exit did not go without ridicule. I was bummed and scolded my friend for departing before the night even started. Selah Selah

That anti-climactic story was told for a point. You see, one of the precious attributes that come with age and gnarly hangovers is clarity in the decisions I make and why I make them. I did enough analysis during February to fill a library, but I only share some tid-bits with the written word. The rest is a work in progress. Everything is a work in progress. And I don’t know how much more I can think about this shit. It is the second week of March and I barely remember February. But I will leave you with this:

Soburary is a yearly seminar I hold that’s focused hyper-reality, supposed clarity and the myth of control. It’s about the choices I make and the conscious decisions that I build happiness on and around. There is always a reason to drink, fuck, fight or even sing Christmas carols. That is true in life, but not in death. Nothing is true after you die. Soburary doesn’t matter after I am gone and I own my choices no matter what. Words like failure and loser won’t matter then. Nothing does. But right now it there is a reason to evaluate and focus and to be better. I’m counting on it.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day and Godspeed.