Dipsomania

Frosted mini-wheats are addicting. I have no doubt that they are somehow bad for me, and are in some way causing me to develop some terrible sort of cancer of the rectum. Though that would be terrible to deal with, at least it has nothing to do with my brain. With my brain in tact, I am able to enjoy FreakAngels, a web comic from an internet prophet and glorious beard bearing bastard Warren "I'd fuck em if I had the chance" Ellis.

Also, without my brain I would be unable to get inebriated. Without some form of inebriation once in a while I am absolutely certain that my brain would crawl out of my nostrils, land on the floor, magically conjure a bottle of Jasper Daniel's (I am allowed to call Jack that since I know him so well) and a loaded shotgun and blow my empty fucking head off before pouring the alcohol all over itself and then masturbate until the religious police came and snuffed it out.

I feel as if I was born to drink. I do not mean that I can out-imbibe a 40 year veteran of cirrhosis, what I mean is that I can attain my peak quickly *even after months of steady drinking* and I never get hangovers. You heard me correctly, I do NOT get hangovers that extend beyond a slight head buzz in the morning. My liver could kick your god's ass.

Also, when I do drink, I do not become violent. It's an amazing paradox. When sober I would feel little to no remorse for shoving a crescent wrench into a nun's ass, but when I get intoxicated I feel absolutely compelled to dance with the nun and tell her my innermost secret thoughts. Well, that latter part of the previous sentence could be chalked up to a problem I have with drinking, I realized as much when an anonymous person texted me on my phone the next morning saying "its ok, lots of people cry when they hear the song 'Ben'".

I have a couple of dear friends who look down on drinking, which makes things somewhat awkward because I care enough about them to stop just short of asking them if they would be alarmed if I started sucking the sidewalk because a guy spilled some McCormick's there a couple of years ago. I love to drink, but *as many alcoholics will tell you* I honestly can stop anytime I want. And I can, but I manage to drink *probably because of my financial situation* only on rare occasions, but when I do, it's as if I've been accepted in the rapture, and as I ascend to the above I look down on my vomiting, headache having counterparts and with a sorrow stricken face, lament at that they are not part of the chosen ones who shall forever drink in the kingdom of Alcoholic's Heaven.