image stolen from vosizneias.com
(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)
Yesterday was gonna be the day I stopped drinking. But I got stuck in traffic. Tanker truck caught on fire on the 60 freeway. It was carrying liquid hydrogen. Hindenburg. All lanes closed in both directions.
I don’t take the 60 freeway, but everyone who does jumped on my freeway of choice, the 10 East. It was my day to stop drinking. For the first hour I took it. Stuck with the plan. But I’d been driving all day. It got dark on the road. The radio just kept telling me about the horrible traffic conditions I was in, every channel. Defeatist messages. Folks, it’s gonna be bad out there for a while. As we’ve been reporting the 60 is closed. Of course you have your alternate routes, the 10 and the 210. But those are stacked up now too from downtown past Azusa. There’s a ripple effect going on here folks. The 605 and 710 are a sea of red. The 101 is stop and go through downtown past Hollywood. And the 5 is on fire, the commuters have begun torching their cars and eating passengers’ flesh. Trees blackened. No life left in the hills except one sinister looking cactus. Starved crows circling. If you’re an alcoholic, you’re gonna want to drink extra liquor tonight to power through the sensations you’re gonna be feeling for the next several hours. I am speaking directly to you, Delicious Tacos, the announcer said. You are an idiot for wanting to stop drinking. Why would you torture yourself further. Think of that first drink. The one that makes this all go away.
The 110 is backed up to Oregon and surface streets are a Bosch hell of shattered metal, folks. Bones meat blood and sinew in the streets. Insurance salesmen desperate to get home in time for the game, ripping babies out of car seats and holding them by the feet and slamming their little faces into light poles in a spray of blood and gristle to hear the mothers scream. Riot troops with flamethrowers just broiling people alive in their minivans, it’s a real mess out there folks. Why would you stop drinking. A crack in the earth has opened at the interchange of the 10 East and the northbound 605 and Satan has emerged 20 stories tall in flame to rape commuters with an ever-spiraling tentacle cock covered in poisonous barbs and there’s an accident in the carpool lane that CHP is busy trying to clear but it’s going to be at least an hour. CHP spokesperson Rick Martinez is telling commuters out there to stay put folks. Stay where you are if you can, you do not want to be on the road tonight. Truckers passing you will leer from high windows with the ghoulish face of your father. The dead beckon you to hell from twisted reflections in his hubcaps. Giant spiky lugnuts swirling, you feel the flesh ripped off your face, tongue torn out twitching on the asphalt, shredded throat croaking, wordless agony… it’s a real mess out there folks. Better buy as much liquor as you can as soon as you get home folks, you do not want to be sober out there. Traffic brought to you by Mattress Masters. You spend one third of your life on your mattress, why wouldn’t you choose the best. Mattress Masters: sweet dreams.
I masturbated in the car to make myself feel better. Struggled with my belt in a fast patch, grabbed the gym T shirt I’d left in the passenger seat. Draped it over my penis. Thought of a blowjob Gertrude gave me one hot afternoon on a coke hangover. Do you want me to suck your dick, she said. I miss you, lover. Remembered cumming without warning her. How could you, you ruin it. Grab her head and force her to take you deep and shoot down her throat while she tries to wiggle off. You had a good one, she said. Like 8 spurts. I lost it in a slow patch when a trucker was right next to me. He’s seen worse.
That was good for 15 minutes. But by the time I got to the 5 interchange I knew I was going to the liquor store. 50 more minutes to get there. I bought a pint of Christian Brothers for $6.99. Maybe I can pace myself, I thought. It was gone in 20 minutes on an empty stomach. Barely felt it but woke up with a hangover. The only thing that’s gonna take the hangover away is another $6.99 pint of Christian Brothers. If you got a better idea I’d love to hear it.
delicioustacos 
No better ideas. I don’t drink anymore, I just fuck people all the time. You’ve probably already tried that though.
Glad my employer helped your alcoholism keep on going full force.
You still killing it playah. Keep them words coming
You might want to think some more about this quitting drinking business. Alcohol is a big part of who you are. Maybe more importantly, it’s a huge part of your gash hounding. I mean, are you really gonna be that charming without a skin full of cheap booze? I’m betting not. You’d be just another boring dork in a sea of boring dorks. Alcohol makes you interesting, DT.
Also, you don’t just quit drinking. You have to become a guy who doesn’t drink. Did you know that? That’s the only way it really works, by becoming a different guy. That’s a lot of fucking work and you just don’t strike me as the kind of guy that has that much drive or motivation. Charming and interesting? Oh hell yes. Driven? Not so much.
Beat me to it.
Just don’t use heroin again, Jesus.
Consider audiobooks for that long miserable drive home.
I smoke weed.
Is that what people google now to get on your blog: alcohol and drink driving?
Resolve to drink only, let’s say, two days a week. Numerous high-functioning alcoholics have made it well into their sixties with such strategies.
Alcohol is for average, mediocre people. Heroin is for trash. Weed is for college and high school kids.
You need to upgrade to cocaine. Mike Tyson swears by it. It helped fuel Martin Scorsese’s early writing career. Turned Robin Williams into a top grade stand-up comedian. Problem is that it is expensive. So that means you will need to find steady employment.
So stop whining and being shiftless and go to graduate school in journalism, communications, public policy, film school, government, SOMETHING. ANYTHING.
Anything is better than what you are doing right now. Which is nothing.
Shift your focus, become a productive graduate student, get that graduate degree, get a professional job that pays a decent annual salary (not an hourly wage), and move to a good part of town.
Then, you can buy and do all the coke you want. It will help you upgrade the quality of the snatch you nail, too. The better looking girls do coke, not cheap whiskey, heroin, or weed.
Journalism, public policy, film school… are you fucking insane? Nobody gets anything but crippling debt out of that shit unless he went to an Ivy and made the right friends, or his father did.
Agreed, especially being a journalist doesn’t require a certain training, so forget university.
It’s 2 graduate years of federally funded student loans that you don’t have to pay back as long as you keep going to graduate school.
So just rack up the degrees and use the student loan money for drugs and loose women.
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Is it really that expensive? Do you feel physically different? I’ve smoked weed and it freaked me out because I could feel myself falling asleep or I knew that my brain was playing tricks on me and my tongue was not the desert storm I felt it was. How much is it, anyway?
Liquid hydrogen? That’s pretty fucking awesome.
I’ve always thought it kind of cool when recovering addicts get hooked on candy and chocolate, they make it their vice. If it works, sure, like Christopher in Sopranos.
I’m in LA and you’ve provided me a lot of entertainment. I think you need alcohol and that it has been a part of your writing charm, so it seems only fair that I buy alcohol for you as a consumer of the end product.
I recognize my responsibility, in other words. Drop me a line.
Do you follow Cedonulli’s blog? You guys are like brothers, except you’re more drugs, and he’s more … nevermind. You’re both nuts.