GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #78: NIGHT OF THE LIVING BOOZER

Once upon a time, I was one of the hardest drinking motherfuckers you could ever meet. Every night, you'd find me at a different bar, hanging out with friends. Mondays were Doc Ryan nights, because they had dollar pints. Tuesdays were Elmhurst Public House nights, because they had dollar personal pitchers. Wednesdays were, I think, random bar nights. My memory is fuzzy about that one, but I think I'm recalling correctly. Thursdays were spent at Seven-Ten, but I forgot the drink special. Fridays were Spring Inn nights, because drinks there were always cheap, and they were five minutes away from home. And more often than not, Fridays ended at Brauerhouse, because they were open even later than the Spring Inn, and they were even closer to my place.


Now? I don't have specific drinking nights. If there's a special outing, of course I'll drink. And if it's Friday or Saturday, I'll probably have a few drinks. But it was nothing like in my drinking prime. I miss those days.


My pancreas stopped working a while back, so I've got to be careful. Even if that hadn't happened, my wallet has gotten considerably lighter, so I've got to be careful about that, too.


Tonight, we had an unofficial work outing. Ordinarily, I'd be one of the last fuckers at the bar, reluctant to go home even after being about ten drinks in. Tonight? I left before midnight, and I barely had a buzz.


It's like I barely know myself. I miss the old days of getting hammered and blacking out and trying to piece together the mystery of last night. That's why I enjoyed THE HANGOVER as much as I did. When you get down to it, it's about solving the mystery of whatever the fuck you did last night. It's almost like trying to figure out a novel by William Faulkner.


Those days are behind me. Except . . . sometimes, I get the urge to become Future Booze Jesus again. I might do that later this year. Maybe for New Year's Eve. I probably shouldn't, because my pancreas might stop working again, but I'm feeling nostalgic.


One of my coworkers/friends reminded me of a time when we used to get drunk and spend the night at another coworker's/friend's place. When I woke up the next morning, I saw an unfinished drink. The first thing I did? I reached down and drank the fucker.


I miss those days. I need to drink more often.