Drinking with the cat's meow

My Bloody Mary was fucking amazing. I also nibbled some manchego cheese and olives. The Vicodin was sending waves of warmth through me. Etienne de Rocher's record was playing. A couple to my left were on their first date. I felt great.

"I gotta go to the bathroom," said my pal.

"OK," I said back to him, "make sure to go in the men's room and not the women's."

"Thanks for the vote of confidensch," he slurred.

A group of two guys and two girls came in and headed to the bar, squeezing into the space that my pal had left. As they were ordering, I noticed something very odd. One of the men was wearing a sleeping mask on his forehead. You know, the kind Joan Crawford probably wore to cover her eyes. It was green and pushed up his bangs somewhat stylishly, all of which led me to wonder if it was indeed a fashion statement. Maybe it was the drugs, but this guy looked ridiculous. I was just about to point this out when my pal returned from the bathroom, feeling his way across the area.

Then it hit me: Getting high or loaded is not something to share with the rest of the world. It is something to do alone in your house, surrounded by your own filth. Plus, I'm glad to say, it started to get old. Addicts are not pretty. And I was merely playing the part of the drug addict. In reality, I could quit at any time, cliche be damned. Like happiness, which must first be introduced by sadness, inebriation must also be equally tempered with sobriety. After I finish my last bottle of Vicodin, I shall go back to the cruel world. I promise.