[1002] Still Alive

God fucking dammit! I hate every fucking thing I want to say in this blog. Fuck me, fuck everything I’m blithly offering a perspective about. FUCK FUCKING FUUUUUUUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

It is 3:35 AM and I have just gotten home. I’ve been quasi-sick the last few days, and after wrapping up my last group at 4:30, I had energy. I invited 2 friends to check out a free sketch comedy group on campus. Neither came. I went, still had energy, and got to drinking.

As I do, I made a couple insta-friends. I read the room. I bided my time. I read people for a living, you know how it goes. Nothing interesting came from that. I encouraged some kids, I spent too much money, yada yada.

But from the end of that interaction until now is FATE!

I drove my drunk ass home. I fucking hate that fact, and I also don’t. I hate that, were I utilitarian in my thinking, I would never agree to allow the standard I’ve seemingly set for myself be the rule for all. There is no amount of money worth the catastrophe at the end of the drunk-driver story. No excuse. No mercy. No conversation nor negotiation.

And yet, the facts have me here typing this, in real time, not from a prison cell, 13 years into my gambling with drunk driving. That fucking sucks! That has a degree of “fucking pay attention to me” persuasiveness no seemingly moral and reasonable person wants to acknowledges. But I’m fucking Nick P. I can call it the cuntiest of facts but facts nonetheless. I can plainly state that I wish I never had to acknowledge another detail to my aberration existence, but here it shits, and so we sniff.

I don’t think drunk driving is cool, safe, in bounds, or any other positive-sounding qualifier just in case that wasn’t clear. I don’t really want to feel perfectly able and competent to get my drunk ass home safely. I don’t want to pass cop cars and know to a certain degree of certainty they’re not going to pull me over. I don’t want to know that I have an exacting understanding of layers of drunkenness that would wage the gamble in the first place. I don’t want to know that I’ve spent 13 years dodging the proverbial bullet. All of this shit bugs the fuck out of me, but apparently not enough to stop me at least up until an hour ago.

This is my struggle. The naked “obvious” nature of something, and my “different” or “questioning” or “are you sure” perspective.

Justified? I don’t' really think so. Like, I don’t feel good lol. It’s not pride, man. I’m not special in a holistic sense. But, like, I’m begrudgingly aware. I’m not all swervey. I’m not speeding. I can work hard when I’m drunk. I can pay attention. But my greater context renders that mute.

Moreover, I have all these” big plans.” Who the fuck am I to jeopardize that? Oh, wait, I’m drawing on my experience of shit-ass cunts and life broadly. If anything, the dumber a cunt I am, the more I’ll have license to things I can exploit. Well fuck, that’s a shitty lesson lololol. What reasonable person would build that into their pragmatic approach to life?

I never want to drive home drunk again. That’s such a huge statement. I want home to be in walking distance. I want the resources to get me anywhere I want to be, like home, without ever thinking about it. I want to inhabit a space that qualifies and respects my ability to drunk-drive as superior to others, even if It's such a ridiculous thing to parse or differentiate. I don’t want the risk. It’s not a thrill. It’s not my subconscious desire to destroy myself. It’s such a stupid fucking point, “I just want to be home and I bet I work it out without spending money.”

I’m just as irrational a beast as any of you dumb cunts. I just happen to talk about it.

I wish I were understood. I don’t want what I have. It just makes me more and more alone the more I use it.