Caution: This blog is not for whimpy drinkers - the folks who think they're cool when they drink.  In fact, if you're one of those party set drinkers, you're probably not tough enough to read this.  This is for the tough guys and gals, the one who think they're past just cool - they're ice.  Yeah, this is for you guys.


He shifted his weight uneasily, looked at the floor for a few seconds, then gave up his place and moved away.  The weight of my stare got too great for him, I guess - either that or he decided the bar was where he needed to be rather than standing in line at the food service window.  He looked like hammered shit.  I knew the look well because I've worn it a lot in my lifetime - that awful day after the big night look.  He needed to eat, but food woundn't stop his shaking, and it wouldn't stop his cravings.  No pill known to man can take away that feeling, so he did the next best thing - he drank again.  I saw him again thirty minutes later, looking much better and even smiling at the woman with him.  She had on a sleeveless t-shirt inscribed, "Rehab is for quitters."

 

Yeah, you two are sure a couple of winners, I couldn't help thinking to myself.  Life in the fast lane, the party crowd, young and looking good . . . and so cool you're damn near a human air conditioner.  Cool, baby, and living the high life because that's the best way to enjoy it, you see.  It's party time, fuck everything else.  You're young and full of yourself, and the road is wide and smooth right now.  Oh, you've found a few hills and curves and bumps lately, but it's still a helluva good road where your can go as fast as your will and body can carry you.  But the thing is . . . you don't know jack shit about cool yet, but you're going to know before too long. You think you're bullet proof, or that maybe you'll duck when the time comes.  You're wrong.

Let me tell you what cool isn't.  It's not puking your guts up on somebody, that's for sure.  It's not getting the shit beat out of you, and it's not running off your drug and alcohol induced mouth, saying things that make you look like the world's biggest dumbass.  It's not pissing the bed because you're too drunk or drugged up to get to a bathroom.  It's not crapping your pants due to the bad diarrhea you've got from all the partying.  It's not slobbering when you talk or try to eat, or even when you try to kiss . . . and it sure as hell isn't cool trying to fuck with a half hard dick or (if you're a gal) when you didn't even have the presence of mind to take off your panty hose.  It's not losing you car, or worse yet, wrecking it.  And finally, it's not having to pull the pillow away from your head in the morning because you nose bled during the night.

But you say you haven't done those things yet?  Well, maybe a few of them, but it's not a big deal because it doesn't happen often.  It will get worse, believe me, it will.  But that's a long way off, right?  You've still got time to get in some heavy duty partying before that happens.  And don't worry, I'm not about to try and talk you out of it.  You've already bought the ticket, so you might as well go ahead and ride the train until it stops.  Maybe by then you'll still be alive and willing to realize how stupid that t-shirt is.  Rehab is for quitters?  Maybe, but it's also for people who want to live . . . and to live life without being a fool.  And the day you finally wise up and decide to straighten up will be the coldest day of you life.  Then, and only then, will you know what cool really is.

I was in my early twenties the first time I woke up with a pillow stuck to my head.  That's because a couple of guys batted me around pretty good the night before, not because of a nose bleed.  That wouldn't come for another fifteen years.  I got up, stumbled to a bathroom, and pried open my swollen eyes with my fingers.  My lips were puffed up and when I blinked my eyes, blood squirted from cuts I couldn't see.  My back was cut up from where some guy had taken at beer opener to me.  My clothes were ripped to shreds.  The gal I had spent the night with woke up just long enough to say, "I hope you fucking die."  I never saw her again, but I relived that scene a number of time before I lived my coldest day.

Yeah, I was a tough guy . . . the one who could outdrink anybody, who was always ready for whatever adventure or trouble came up.  I lasted until I was forty years old that way . . . then crashed and burned.  And my coldest day?  I woke up in a silent house, my wife and kids gone.  A note on the kitchen table said I could drink myself to death if I wanted to, but "they" were leaving.  I knew I was in deep shit because I didn't care.  And I was cold to the bone, shaking and wishing like hell I could die and be done with it all.  A week later I was in rehab.  And I never drank again, not to this day.

There wasn't a damn thing cool about me, and I sure as hell wasn't tough.  I was just another drunk, regardless of my social standing in life.  I was a jerk and a chickenshit, and I deserved everything a shitty life gave me.  The only thing good I can say about myself back then is that I did not whimper when it came time to pay the fiddler.  And I paid plenty . . . broken marriage, damaged lives (and not only my own), and a lifetime of regrets.  And yes, I'm a crusader who does what he can now to reach people with problems with booze and other drugs.  I don't talk about it much, and I might not even mention drinking or using . . . but it's in everything I write, one way or another.

And sometimes I just come right out and say it.  Drink if you must, but never lose sight of the risks involved with it.  Party hardy, but try to think about the days you can't do that.  Get over the cool image thing.  No drunk or druggie is cool . . . even if it's just for a little while.  If you abuse, you lose . . . it's just that simple, and your coolest day will be the one you realize all that.