CREATURES OF PLEASURE

Haven't had a drink in two days now. It’s tough man, tough for a guy like me with this mug at this age. The world is meant for the young and beautiful, honey, and that ship sailed long ago. Something interesting I've noticed is that time slows down… not so much the movement of time, but your movement within it. You seem to have a firmer grasp of where you stand and, consequently, a heightened awareness of Death lurking behind every corner. There's no bright and shining path in this life though many like to think there is, and that they can follow it if only they had the time or the discipline. But sorry. Not true. You’re forced to decide between the twisted paths you can stomach for 70 to 80 years. Sobriety isn't a straight and narrow. It's just as twisted as the others, perhaps even more so with the added anxiety, depression, and isolation that inevitably follows. I'm not on a sober kick by any stretch of the imagination. I see the utility of drinking, especially now at this age. I just love writing more, so I'm forcing myself to curtail a bit. What’s a bit, you might ask? A bit is 3-4 times per week as opposed to the full 7 with a three-drink minimum. Don't look at me awkwardly, okay? If you had the kind of father I've had, you would understand. You might say we're a family of addicts.

It's not plain hedonism I'm after. It's boring in fact having simple pleasure—seeking as an ultimate aim. I mean, I've had some mighty orgasms in my time, but even those go stale after about 20 seconds, not including the 15-minute or so buildup. We are creatures of pleasure, but the kind of pleasure I’m referring to is a deep—seeded spiritual pleasure. A sense of calm. A sense of being right with the world and in the way your time is spent, no matter if the circumstance is good or bad. Pleasure in the sense that you can wake up in the morning and feel in complete control of yourself and your sense of identity. Maybe that's what I’m driving at. Maybe, for me, pleasure is identity. And hell, I've been struggling with that since I started stringing complete sentences together. Who am I? The hell if I know. And Big Bad Daddy isn't here to let me know, so I guess I'm royally screwed.