a fragment inspired by Dan Fante (John, you’d be very proud of your son)

I was disoriented from insomnia, hands shaking from the lack of nicotine, and world spinning from too much red wine, the cheapest my money could buy. I finished the rest of the bottle in two gulps, it was a fucking celebration, for fuck’s sake, I had just gotten fired, free I was at last. surely, this fucking bottle was worth my last few bucks, and I sure as fuck could not spare it, but I needed something to distract me. something to make me smile, for I was going for a walk, a very long, very drunk walk home. if – that is – if I still had a home waiting for me downtown. being who I am and doing what I do surely are hot little ways to get your ass thrown to the curb like a diseased dog.

I was drunk. fall-on-the concrete kind of drunk, outta-ya-mind drunk. I felt like I could punch a million assholes, and scream a thousand curses. brave, spit-in-your-face-wetback drunk. and boy, did I smell. my clothes had a crust of dried blood (mine and others), stale beer, a streak of puke on my shoes. and sweat. the smell of courage, the smell of loosing. I had sweated like a motherfucker for the days wandering, drinking, and for the cold turkey hits you like a freaking punch to the gut and all you can do is tremble and sweat, while there are no showers and no change of clothes in strangers’ houses and cheap motels and whores’ holes.

and all I could hear from my throbbing ears was the voice of my beloved dead best friend Sebastien saying: “what’cha gonna do now? get a real job? think you’ll be able? god forbid you have to work, right? boy, let me tell you, the world doesn’t have to put up with your shit, nor take any of your crap anymore. you’re not hot enough to be this crazy, buddy boy. if you were, you could fuck your way out of things, but you can’t. and you can’t charm yourself out of this – you have no charm, fucktard!

you think that’s cute? being a functional drunk? punching and kicking the face of society. you are too old for that bullshit, babe! wake up! or are you brain dead now from drying up too many bottles? you are a monkey-shit, ape-turd of a drunk… hijo, you are ruining everything! one of these days, the world will stop, open its door and kick your sorry ass out! clean up or get the fuck out!”

that made me mad as fuck, but I could recognize his reasoning. and my liver was acting up again, I felt sick and loaded and heavy, I hadn’t even taken a decent crap in a couple of days. my heart was erratic and pumping, my blood pressure sinking low. and I needed a smoke, and fast, something to stop my hands from trembling and my legs from failing me. I felt like I was soon gonna have to scrape my face out of the asphalt…

so I walked half a block more looking down to the concrete, stumbling with no pride and no shame, looking for a cigarette butt long enough for me to smoke. yeah, motherfucking bum thing, but I was hopeless, helpless, penniless. I was scraping of to survive. surely, I wasn’t gonna eat garbage now, but even if that shit was gross, I was going to figure it out. I wasn’t sad or remorseful, nor I was ashamed. this was my life, the path I had chosen, and even if I was going to drink myself to death or throw myself in front of a car in this bad neighborhood, it would all be my doing. this was my shitty life and I was on top of it. I would die and go to hell to meet my friends, that special kind of hell, and I would spend my eternity there thinking that all I did was because I wanted to, all of it was my own doing without ever bending over and taking it up the ass like anyone’s little bitch.

I had no regrets.

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