If you were really feeling good about yourself, oh, pal-o-mine, would you really need to declare it? Or anesthetize yourself with a six-pack during the day and another after dinner, watching your D-county, trailer park TV fare? Methinks, pal, that what you're really feeling is an overwhelming combination of rage at all those doing better than you -- a mere 94% of the population -- and a powerful, in-born lack of self-esteem.

Truth is, you're going nowhere and you know it. Although you put on a happy-go-lucky, I'm-just-one-of-da-guys-having-fun persona, you feel a bedrock, helpless sense of futility. You're not smart, never have been. The politics of how to do well or advance at whatever pathetic excuse of a job you have -- if, in fact, you even have a job -- is just a blur to you. How do other guys have the balls to just drop by and schmooze with the boss? What a fuckin' bunch of brown noses.

You've never had money or power and, really, in your guts, never expect to. Doing well is just not you. Driving a nice car is just not you. Living in a great house or apartment is just not you. Having a hot woman in your life, instead of the obese dog that you feel obligated to fuck once a month, is just not you.

It's awful, just fucking awful. Not to mention the doc tell you that your liver is in such terrible shape that if you don't stop drinking soon you're going to wind up with cirrhosis. So you've taken a big step. You've switched completely to Bud. You've taken control, made a positive step forward. This is only the beginning, you tell yourself, as you nod off to sleep. Now if only the fucking room would stop spinning. And when you wake up in the morning the sheets wouldn't be so wet.


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