My urine looks like root beer. That’s
a good bad sign, I think. It ain’t from eating rhubarb. My doctor once told me,
“Your organs are not happy...” and I rushed straight home and put away a quart
of whiskey. I already have hepatitis. The whites of my eyes are yellow. I was
putting a brave strain on my liver and kidneys and (probably) pancreas. My pee
was now brown. The end was near, thank Manson. I’m feeding the champion within
with beer and bourbon. My abdomen is swollen. My face is decorated with
ruptured blood vessels, little Braille scabs that describe my disordered life.
I look like a Wolverton cartoon.
I don’t sit at my kitchen table anymore. Sitting there makes me feel
like a sack of puppies about to be drowned. I don’t need that. I patiently
await my hemorrhage on the loveseat. The cushions are pocked with little burn
holes. I can’t afford to smoke anymore. Cigarettes have become too expensive. Lung cancer was taking too long anyway. I used
to cough like a helicopter. There was this girl named Colleen. An anorexic albino,
she looked like a vaporous, woeful ghost. Pale and spooky and willowy. We only
had sex once. She said intercourse with me was like fucking a fishing rod.
I used to know a coke-dealer named Ivan, a big Russian with a mustache and
a laugh like galloping horses. I once bought a gram from him and gave him too
much money. Those were the days. Ivan noticed the error and gave me the extra
twenty back. He said, “Honesty is the best policy,” in his deep dark forest of
an accent. I thanked him and returned home to find that the coke had been cut
to within an inch of its life. Colleen laughed about it for hours. That was the
start of her nervous breakdown.
I haven’t had company since Colleen left. They were all her friends. I didn’t
like any of them but at least they drank. We used to stand around the kitchen
table, filling our livers. I felt a reluctant kinship. I felt like a character
in the AA book. One night three people had to race to the bathroom to puke. We
were drinking bubblegum vodka. The smell got to be obnoxious.
Why are all these sour memories crowding in on me? I pour another shot
of bourbon. I don’t know why I don’t just drink straight from the bottle, hobo
style. Etiquette? I’m only an obscene animal with a thirst like a plummet. I
urge my liver to fail. The next time I piss I want it to be inkjet black. I
want to drown in my own blood like Kerouac and W.C. Fields.
They’re dead and much happier than I am.
