Saturday Mourning Cartoons

Shit, man.  Been drinking since midnight, and it's 7 AM.

The worst part is finding no one to partake with me, no 19 year-old chicks, no retired drunken has-beens, just a motionless nothing.

I open my door and no one's outside on this Saturday morning. I'm thinking I'm about to become one of those pathetic no-life lowlifes, the clichés, those who never make it. But there is no making it, and those of us in the know... we know, man, we're aware. And it makes us drink more. Not just to forget, but also to expand on what we know, throw the beliefs upside-down and make them stand for something...

No one to hear the laughter... no waking hour... it gets lonely on the meadow of Knowing How Shit Gets Done. Where time stands still and no one is to be believed. Where the Law lays you still for 5 hours but the people around you make it become 12 or 24.

This is as unnatural a cycle as white boys playing reggae - it's as fake as a light bulb in the night, as the soothing touch of a nubile teenage College sophomore, as the promise of a new day.

It's times like these where the existence of a god of whatever allegiance seems implausible, it's when the good times not only will not roll but will not just walk fucking forward, when the clock is but meager nothingness, when Life tells you you should quit but your spirit, your heart, it fucking tells you there are miles still left to ponder, to mind yourself to bear forward...

Shit, man. They made these fucking beverages to get you to slow the fuck down, to annihilate your soul and stop you dead in your fucking tracks - but there are times when you keep soldiering on. You could take the fucking world on and fucking prevail, by a landslide, by whatever the fuck it is that roams in Charlie Sheen's fucking head, that makes you invincible, that makes the sunrise not end the night, that sends your body into immortality.

And I'm there, man.

But it gets fucking lonely on this mountain.