The Reason Why I Drink: A Confession In Seven Parts by Xavier Wayson, One For Every Day Of The Week (Spring 2015 edition)
Thursday . . .
‘People are strange, especially when you’re settled and content, or heavily invested in a specific way of life, a set way of doing things, looking out at everyone from the parapets of your life choices.’
Clown bastards. You’d think they don’t exist, but they do. Sinister suckers. They strut their way through life, eyeballing whatever they don’t like, throwing hissy fits at the drop of a hat. Today’s spoiled brats, all grown up and betting hard, playing it clean, terrorizing the playgrounds with their silent opprobriums. They shape life around them, molding it to suit their needs and expectations. Driven by their insecurities, they reject whatever doesn’t conform to their demands, making sure all dissenters come around, or else. Get with the program, son. Go on, this is the way it’s done. Get in line or be marginalized, ostracized, ridiculed and misrepresented, so that whatever is different from us loses its appeal. We can’t afford to have our lives shown for what they are: one measly option out of many, just one way of going about life. We need to know that the way we have done things is how things are done, period. Everything else is an aberration. Stuff only the ‘crazies’ do.
Sad creatures, these clown bastards, justifying their choices by delegitimizing other options. So full of themselves, bolts in their heads; livestock with house addresses and bank accounts; but devious, conniving bastards. Organized and entrenched. They span the globe, living the lukewarm dream, the straight-and-narrow charade, moving to the beats of a life spent in today’s boot camps. Spreading ‘the way it is’ like the waters of a stale river, bloating and spilling over the levees with an immeasurable amount of seepage accumulating in the vicinity.
Whenever I see one, a clown bastard, I put on my special face and tell them to grab a religious nut and go fuck each other moral. Jump in a pit and go at it, bang bang. There you go, nuts and bolts make for a good screwup. Jangle those parts. Pop out a few sick tools from your righteous union, grab them by the handle and whack yourselves silly, then jump inside a crucible and make ore and slag. Make yourselves useful.
‘Be careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings, pride, or sense of propriety in the process,’ I shout after them. ‘Don’t anger any gods on your way down, religious or secular. We wouldn’t you to go out being offensive and uncivilized.’
Sadly, they’re not game. They stick around, dancing their circus dance around each other, big righteous clowns, pretending one is more righteous than the other, eager to force their beliefs on everyone else, religious freaks and opprobriates alike, stinking up the show.
So I drink to make my time among them fun. Get a little buzz around them, have a laugh, maybe even get sloshed and take the fucking piss, right in their ugly faces.
My name is Xavier Wayson and I am a free agent among invested parties, which makes me the enemy. The outsider.
I love being the outsider. It comes with no limits. They have boundaries, things to lose. I don’t.
Watch this space for Friday . . .