“It’s not drinking alone if the dog is home.“
“There was nothing glorious about the life of a drinker or the life of a writer.
That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink.
If something bad happens, you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens, you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens, you drink to make something happen.
Getting drunk was good. I decided that I would always like getting drunk.
It took away the obvious and maybe if you could get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn’t become obvious yourself.
Drinking is an emotional thing.
It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same.
It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall.
I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day.
It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.
I don’t like jail, they got the wrong kind of bars in there.”
~ Words by Charles Bukowski
