Sobriety sits like a dense, fleshy lump in the breast of my newly molded man tittie, said man tittie a result of decadent holiday desserts and second (nay third, fourth!) helpings of my granny's famous corn bread stuffing.
Deep within does sobriety linger, an alien coldness utterly foreign in comparison to the warm result of clinking carafes of cabernets, cocktails and champagnes guzzled in celebration of the birth of the Christ child and the ritual exchange of plastic barter cards whose only worth wavers on when Lynquesha or Kashandra or Je'Shay should return from their breaks to scan chosen sundries -- mine was toilet paper and light bulbs. Joyeaux Noel indeed!
Dearest reader -- how very rude of me. Allow me to take this precious moment to welcome you back, both of you. Alas it has been far too long since the virtual realm has been graced by my lofty and oft ill suited prose, but here in what very well feels to be my thirteenth hour, yours truly has mustered the merit to tap a few insignificant keys for your amusement -- and as you will discover -- your pity as well.
For sobriety comes in many forms, friends -- some view sobriety as a natural state, a sense of unaltered function not dissuaded by the ill effects of any number of intoxicants be they spirits (paranormal and distilled), chemical, pharmaceutical, lustful -- the list does indeed go on.
For these blanched, pure souls sobriety is simply being. I do not envy these clean living folk and I do indeed despise those who take such pride as to lord their unaltered states over those of us who are very much altered, for better or for worse.
And then some may view sobriety as a form of penance or (indeed fitting in the New Year) resolution to achieve goals, to drink less, to buy fewer baubles. This sobriety is the burden of those who indulged of such compulsive living and now -- in accordance with the unspoken rituals set forth by the OTHER holiday infant, Baby New Year -- must attempt at least the slightest pantomime of retribution or risk being voted off the island by those clean living types who miserably are so gosh darned happy there's nothing really to resolve.
And then there's sobriety as a dire means to avoid inevitable cataclysm, utter personal failure or, quite possibly, death -- this is the bleakest form: sobriety by utter necessity. Which do we value most?
Sobriety or a complete set of gleaming, pearly white teeth? Sobriety or a loving, caring spouse? Sobriety or eleven maxed out credit cards and constant telephone harassment by Lynquesha or Kashandra or Je'Shay on behalf of the creditors on behalf of the Baby Jesus on behalf of compulsive Christmas spending?
This is when sobriety becomes paramount and it's no longer a question of will I cheat a little on my silly resolution. It's a question of can I make it a day, a week, a month without fucking up one's entire life -- not to mention the lives of those who care the most about us -- toupee stylists, pet psychiatrists, Asian housekeepers and the beefy hooker slash personal trainer.
I'm speaking from the heart, dearest reader. I have struggled. I have fallen low amongst my fellow dandies. Where once loquacious lilies spouted inane prose and gossiped the goings on of Manhattan's social elite, now only ridicule, scorn, embarrassment and sloth attend my poetry circles, movie excursions and dismal dinner parties. I have been voted off the island figuratively and literally -- I am banned from Manhattan by the very people for whom I made names and reputations.
So now I tend to a tedious exile in Brooklyn. I am vegetarian. I am sober and oh so very boring. What is a dandy without sex, drugs and red meat?
Very little my reader – very little indeed. Rest assured big things await us all in 2008; not so big as my man tittie (which frequent gym visits are already deflating) but big things nonetheless.
Thank you for your time and the opportunity to blame my hardships on somone else.