The Whiskey Journals

The Whiskey Journals -


Pages from the edge of a young mind struggling with the complication of complacency.

8/14/06

"BYOB, Cause the Booze is Free"

My brain is the eternal whiskey journal. Empty bottles are pages from the edge of a young mind struggling with complacency. At that final moment, with that final shot left, everything seems cryptic, like your maybe enjoying this time around of your therapist, best friend, or parent telling you what your problem is. Its nice to see yourself reflecting in the eyes of the judgmental, to hear the misinformed words form into something thats already been written.

The night was thick, like some surreal fantasy that had never been thought out. I saw the potential and bought it with my chump change. In the kitchen were bloody marys and later bloody murder in the streets. So close to the mercy of the public we sat struck with regret like actors. The kind of regret thats needed to make you feel alive again, the kind of regret that makes you able to relive and enjoy that moment like film...

Or maybe thats just me... I would hope so.

Those "BYOB" things. Bring your own bait, or bring your own b***h, cause the booze is free.

Alcoholism is the only disease you can get cursed at for having, its like that no good best friend that you can secretly blame everything on. Everyone has one, dont you f*****g lie, you do. Mine just happens to not have a soul, so it needs to suck mine out from my body, and my conscience.

The next morning is usually awkward, not having had the best or worst night, just somewhere in between the gluttony and the genuine friendships. I never know what to do in someone elses house in the morning, so I usually wind up in the kitchen looking for any left over drinks so I can kick the day off the right way.

So, you know where ill be, waiting here for the next first shot at greatness.


"She Would Create Me"

She would be life, seeping into every crevice accompanied by the four lettered virus that makes me and all other men masochistic in their search for nirvana in the form of a shadow left by her hands in the orange moonlight. Her song is memory, remembered at the times of our failure to create our own blissful universes.

She would be a moment, that cannot be placed in the predictable nature of time, only outside of my imagination she looms with s**t eating grins and sly remarks.

I am a sarcastic, masochistic subject that is discussed in distasteful secrecy. My secret is fetal in its form, and she is its mother, cannibalistic by nature yet⦠infallible.

"Smooth as Silk"

So im balls deep in jesus, chuggin on some Kessler, when I realize that all of my ailments are because i fucked religion in the a*s. I hated church, painted my fingernails like a f*g and made fart jokes that included my own mother in them. Blast you captain god with your big f**k off beard and giving me teenage ED, damn you with your damning.