I realize how genetically granted I am that I succumb to the succulent seductress of the bespoken bottle so often in life. How do you explain, engrossingly and in detail, to everyone you meet that you often perceive yourself to be merely half a man, a mere homo observus, until that first tasty drip has touched the tip of your tongue. Dreary dry days test the patience in ways that the wet, wild, wonderful ones test the wisdom. Is it better to be the flagrant and uproarious fool than the distant and sober dabbler in the arts of having humble and habile humanity?

Problematic, perhaps, that the soul of my own discourse can often simultaneously be the very same sadness of my divorce from human affairs. How ironic is the superposition of the substance, in how it can so simply sink the soul into suffering. The angers answer to no one and the sadnesses silence the fool. But even then, as my tears tred the passages of my problems, I feel more aware and awake than before my thirst had been thusly saked.

I am doomed to return once more to the brink, and I think I shall forever be torn between the drink and the sink. So, here's to me, unhuman since birth, clink.