Thursday, April 30, 2009

A TREATISE ON CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES

-IN WHICH ALCOHOL IS INCLUDED-

For many people, the idea of drinking more than four times a month is considered bad behavior. Drinking more than four times a week is cause for great concern, and drinking every night might as well be pinning a little white sign on your lapel stating 'Social Leper'. While these rules aren't arbitrary, and are probably based somewhere on some crackpot medical lecture, people have got to be more understanding when it comes to liquor, and hopefully some perspective can be finally gained on your garden variety lot of domestic drugs/drug use.

For example:
Socks.
One of the many mundane objects that litter our bedroom floors, socks a just a note in the elevator music melody that ekes out the soundtrack to our lives. In short, socks are fucking boring. Save for the 5 minute fanfare they get when someone asks me what I would do if I Became Wealthy (wear new socks every day), I give socks absolutely no thought whatsoever. However! As droll as they may be, I have to deal with them every single day. This is where Controlled Substances comes into play, riding valiantly out from all the Trees on his White Stallion, his Black Dart arrows resting comfortably in his quiver. Sweet vehicles to new perspectives. Perhaps because of our Puritan ancestry, it has become some kind of noble penance to stretch our lives twice their perceived length so that every day becomes a vast swathe of Time in which we are forced to Deal With The Mundane Mundanely. This is insane, and I call for a stop to it right now. Drinking at 9 in the morning has got naught to do with one's Moral Fibre or Steadfastness. I think that anyone, anyone at all, has got a perfect right to Wake and then Bake. Because honestly? Brushing your teeth, putting on deodorant, picking out socks, making the bed, all these activities more or less make up the bulk of our day; let us find comfort and solace from these habits. At some point during our gory transcendence from bloodletting and human sacrifice and making nuns drink boiling pitch (see: RED TERROR) into our current Domestic Glory, we have lost all distinction between the people who like to have a drink or eight every night and, well, the fucking miserable other half who always start conversations in bars but ironically are the worst ones to talk to- everyone gets lumped into the Bad Citizens pile. To adopt a phrase, it is "weak shit".