Update: See, this is why one should not have the keys to one’s own blog when one is under the influence.

I am only writing this because I am drunk enough to believe that the few remaining regular readers of this site are actually interested in the person behind the writing. That’s pretty drunk, no? Any typos are purely the result of booze; I’m fairly sure that when I wrote this in my spawling handwriting on Coors Light napkins at the bar, all of the rough edges and misspelling were edited out. Therefore, all of the screw-ups happened after the actual writing.

No, really.

I know why I drink.

Not the little bit of drinking that I do on weekends. not the one or two with dinner or at a social gathering. I know why I drink.

I drink to kill the pain.

It’s not any one pain, it’s the pain of 34 years of life.

I drink to kill the pain of first kisses and that intoxication that comes with infatuation--and, yes, I’m just a little fucked up right now. See, those first kisses--those magic first kisses--were always lies that led me to the worst of either me or the people that I thought I loved. I’m not ver good at love, but I’m very good at seduction.

I drink because the moments in my life are so vivid. I fucking hate my memories. When I close my eyes, I can still feel that moment when my wife told me she was cheating on me and she wanted a divorce. I remember the pain of that moment. I can feel my hands grasping at the carpet. I can feel myself falling and weeping like a child, and the feel of her fingers in my hair and on my back while she tried to comfort me. I can fucking feel the shame.

More than anything, I can feel the shame.

I drink because I remember my failures. And there are so many.

My marriage. My stint in the army (how could I be so arrogantly stupid?>. My relationships. My family.

In fact, the places that I’ve failed are so much more numerous than those where I’ve succeeded that it’s a wonder I’m still standing. A few more drinks and I won’t be standing at all, in case you were wondering.

The count so far (and whiel I’m writing this out on those napkins, I’ve only been here for an hour) is two shots of some cherry-flavored vodka that comes in a very pretty bottle, one shot of Jaeger, one Mandarin and seven, two cherry vodka’s and seven (it goes with those shots beautifully), and one Guinness. Did I spell that correctly?

If nothing else, I do drink well.

I drink because I don’t trust myself.

Wanna know a secret? Something even my ex-wife doesn’t know? Here it is: before she ever cheated on me, I cheated on her.

Before we were married, but while we lived together, I was with another woman. I hate myself for that because what I gave to someone else, I stole from her. Let me say that again: what I gave to someone else, I stole from her. I despise myself for that.

I stopped bartending because of that. I knew I couldn’t trust myself. Alcohol, women, and me just don’t mix well.

I drink because, like so many things, I wish I could take it back.

But there’s no way to take away the things you’ve done. You can apologize, you can repent, you can promise not to do it again, but what’s done is done. Even God can’t erase your sins, no matter what the bible says. See, in the darkest hours of the night, it’s all still there.

Unforgiven.

I drink because there is no way to forgive the things I’ve done. There is no way to make it all okay again. Sometimes it’s nice to take the edge off of that little bit of knowledge.

I drink, when I drink to make thereality of my life take a step back. I can’t always shoulder the burden.