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Array
(
[sid] => 52658
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Life after Death
[time] => 2004-06-18 23:37:20
[hometext] => A poem about going too far on one's 21st birthday.
[bodytext] => Startled by the cleaning ladies, and their talks of beauty shops and ghetto rap, I awoke, shirtless, and in someone else’s pants. I remembered leaving the bar the night before, and thought I had fallen asleep in my shorts and red t-shirt, but alas, that was not the case. My head and stomach still spun with the whims of the spirits I took in the previous night, and motion sickened me, so I lay still. Somehow, over the night, I had lost my identity, my mode of travel, my wealth, and my toothpick, along with all of my clothes. Through the testimony of my three caretakers, I pieced together what had happened the night before. They said I was at the top of my game that night, that I did very well at both pool and foosball, that I took my 21 birthday shots with admirable form and finesse. The truth of the matter is that my recording device ceased to function after it’s 16th drink, so I pickled it up with another 8 ounces of liquor. They said I tore through my leftover steak, not even bothering to use a fork, a plate, a napkin, or any semblance of proper dining manners. They said that that steak is what got those spirits stirring, what made my head and stomach spin, and possibly, what spared my life. They said that within minutes, I awoke in a friend’s car, en route to a new locale, and poured forth a quart of bile and booze-steak. They said I sat, buckled in, and hugged the curb of the road while releasing another gallon of putrescence upon the virgin soil. They said they pulled me out, stripped me to my undergarment, and offered me to the local mosquitoes while they undid my stomach’s wrath. They said my clothes were returned in a bag, into which I unleashed what little choler I had left, before returning to my caretaker’s car and finishing our journey. They said that, once there, I let another two cups of fluid onto my clothes, my chest, and their bathtub. They said that at some point during that, I found the pants and delightfully donned and spat on them from the tub. They said the drive to my bed was uneventful, and that my clothes and belongings were left for dead just outside my friend’s apartment door. They said they’ve never seen anyone more drunk. I recovered my clothes and my stuff and headed back home to do some laundry. I had some time to kill, so I began to think about what I was told, especially the part about never having seen anyone drunker. That sentence hit me particularly hard, but in two very different ways. It let me know just how much I over-imbibed, but it was also taken as a point of dumb machismo. I’ve done the math, I’ve referenced the charts. It seems that my BAC should have been between .4 and .6 %, and it seems that I should have died or, at least, slipped into a coma. Naturally, that sparked thought, and great introspection. The more I thought about my near-death that night, the more I realized that death by alcohol overdose is easily one of the most pleasant ways of leaving this world. I was numb, both physically and emotionally. I had drowned out my mental and physical ability to fear or hurt or care. I would have simply ceased living, covered in vomit, which looks far worse to the sober world than it actually is. After hours of thinking and recovering, I decided that I would never again allow myself to kiss death like I had. I enjoy living, and that’s enough for me. At the same time, I’ve learned to not take pity on those who die by alcohol. They didn’t suffer, they didn’t worry, they didn’t cry. They simply slipped quietly into the darkness just as they had come into the light exactly twenty-one years before. [comments] => 4 [counter] => 148 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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