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Metastasize Me

Remember when that pasty guy with the beard ate McDonald’s french fries for a month and attained erectile dysfunction and also heart disease in the process? Remember how he filmed it because he was trying to stick it to those corporate, processed food ass holes (with mild encouragement from his homely vegan girlfriend)? I inconsequentially did the same thing, except instead of eating McDonald’s I got drunk every night and instead of doing it for one month I did it for two. I also didn’t film it. I use past tense because over the last four or five days, I only drank for maybe three of them, zero of those times being to excess. I developed a penchant for whiskey, because I saw a musician take slugs from a bottle of Jack Daniels during his concert. I would say this affirms the positive effect of American capitalist advertising, but I bought Canadian Mist because it was cheaper and the bottle was recyclable. I outsourced my alcoholism.


If I had to choose between alcohol and everlasting life, I would choose alcohol, and then spend my curtailing life in a slow-motion, drunken haze. Something about a saturated bloodstream makes every physical motion significant, bolder, more important, like you covered your body with the tip of a highlighter because every sentence uttered by your body language seemed noteworthy. To be reflected on later. The emphatic collapse of your legs into the recliner. That was something special. Each sip is a stumble toward elimination. Sip once for the erasure of consciousness. Sip daily for the annulment of life. “Drink up, fellas. Life’s short. And this bottle will cut your travel time in half.”


Sometimes I feel like I outsource my body to alcohol. Or that I outsource my body to other personalities. There’s a reason people prefer caricatures to real-life portraits from the sketch artist at amusement parks, right?  The distortion of my motor skills seems like an exponent for the original distortion of a personality into something that is self-sabotaging. (“Self-sabotaging” in that I’m constantly making an assault on myself and attempting to batter myself into some other type of existence than the one I’m meant for.)


I wonder how many times the sentence “I’m going to exercise more.” has been uttered within the confines of the United States of America.



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