Irish Guilt

“Oh I Am, what happened last night?”

After a night drenched in liberated spirits, some people say the worst part is the hangover. The pound of gray matter against the skull. The explosive reaction to sunlight reflected off white walls. The ache from every joint in the body. Surly, each aliment is hell but nothing compares to the guilt.

“No, really. What did I do?”

The answer to this question turned Bukowski dark and left Ireland sedated by the British. The real curse of the Irish. Not the limp of a dink, as if a fault of the phallus is a curse to the over populated. Nothing compares to the conjured ghosts of shot glass past, summoned forth to reap their havoc in slighted mental shows. Lamp shade nightmares bubble to the surface and join the heart upon the sleeve.

“Really? Am I that daft?”

Children learn by one burn from the stove’s hot top. I do this every weekend and add mental retardation to the list of my deficiency. Doubly so as the splintered bits of recollection are collected from the editing floor. A strip here, a segment there, drama displayed in a 50 foot horror show, “Attack of the Drunken Boob”.

“I am never getting out of bed.”

Doom and Gloom are kiddy rhymes in the bed of shattered memories. Broken conversation take demonic faces and laugh with a Jackal’s jowl. Worst than a bad acid trip, the flashes flood back to the cortex in uncontrollable spasms. Watch thy own self fallen down the bottom of the barrel.

“Or outside, ever again.”

A wise Shaman Ner’do’well once told me the guilt was a common side effect of the bevy. Each drink depletes the necessary chemicals in the brain that keep the body regular. Somewhere in the middle of keg stands and streaking Sunset Blvd., the mind shuts down from lack of use. A werewolf morning awaits at the end, filled with the cannibalized carcass from the night before. Wake up in social gore.

“Who did I call?”

Mystery numbers appear on in the log. Disembodied voices leap from the shallows. Glimpse of a glowing face plate, a lit with lost numbers and unspoken bull. A backlog of fingered messages and sent nonsense. Mad as the hatter, high on Mercury.

“I am never drinking again!”

A false decree that settles the nerves and calms the sensibility. The future hold more wine soaked nights, loss of memory, and the guilt. The guilt will always processed the gluttony. Career alcoholics grow used to cold sweat and foolish rejection. Indulgence becomes indigence. It’s one thing I hope I never get used to.