Well, dear reader, try as I may, I’m afraid I have once again fallen woefully behind in my drinking.  And there may be no coming back from this now…this Might Be It.  You know that these alcoholic lapses have been happening with increasing frequency for the last few years, but I’ve always rallied and made up for lost buzzed time by diving testicles-first into semi-heroic catch-up binges and inebriated goat-dances.  But lately, I’ve noticed my natural enthusiasm for such shenanigans is rapidly waning.  There are, by my reckoning, three main reasons for this:

1. Not Nearly Enough Time for Altered States of Consciousness – Becoming and remaining drunk/stoned/high as a giraffe’s ass on God knows what weird imported chemical/ whatever takes time.  Far more time than I can responsibly justify for such frivolities these days.  Way back in the energetic yet carefree days of my 20s, when I snapped awake in the morning, Rockette-kicked my way out of bed, and immediately set upon my daily “Asses to Kick” list, it seemed almost effortless to get through everything I had to in any given day with ample time left over for psychological release through altered states.  Pero no mas.  Now my days start well before dawn and consist almost entirely of a litany of problems to solve and decisions to make.  There are simply no blocks of time I can reasonably block out for intentional non-functionality.
2. Fight Training – This has been going on for a while now, but as I get within striking distance of a black belt, the training is increasing in both frequency and intensity.  One of the many effects of this has been a more acute awareness/insight/sensitivity into how the things I eat and drink affect energy, stamina, etc.  If I spend Saturday afternoon throwing back whiskey drinks, I can actually feel a difference when training Monday night.  Which brings us to number 3:
3. I’m Getting Too Old For This Shit – There is simply no getting around the fact that whatever “upside” there once may have been to getting three sheets as I sat beneath the palms in the warm afternoon and drank the whiskey with Fitzgerald and Huxley has greatly diminished, and the “recovery” has become longer and less tolerable.  There used to be a noticeable and appreciated “edge” to the writing that came with a high-octane Jack and Coke.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing this so long, maybe it’s because I’m just old and am getting crotchety in my dotage, but the aforementioned edge has long since become a permanent fixture.

So all that’s very well and good…Uncle Jayson finally decided to drink less.  Great.  However, dear reader, almost exactly as I was coming to the conclusions enumerated supra, what I believe to be a far more dangerous drink suddenly appeared on my radar: Dunkin’s Triple Mocha Frozen Coffee.  Just look at this goddamn thing:

Caligula would drink that by the bucket.  And so would I.  I’d drink the shit out of that, and I have, every day for the last goddamn week.  Not a drop of alcohol in them, but I have quickly become convinced they are perhaps the most dangerous beverage I could possibly consume.  I may  suspect the presence of cocaine…jury’s still out.  I find it quite literally addictive.  And okay so maybe they don’t actually put cocaine in these drinks, but I am alarmingly yet pleasantly jacked up after drinking one of these things.  But at this point, I think this jacked-uppedness stems less from the caffeine present and more from the fact that this thing is essentially a thermonuclear sugar-bomb.  I think there is potential for added caffeine, but, curiously, the staff at Dunkin’ seem unwilling to accommodate such requests.  They try to redirect me to a regular mocha latte with as many extra espresso shots as I want.  Which I tried…however, it was just a mocha, pretty much like you’d get anywhere else.  And because my tastebuds have become expectant of the chocolaty perfection of the Triple Mocha Frozen Coffee, I almost spit this bitter beverage across the entirety of the Dunkin’ dining area.  But I didn’t.  Let it not be said that I can’t hold my mud: I chugged the wretched and rather pedestrian beverage like a goddamn man.  And for the next couple of hours, my metabolism was perceptibly accelerated, as per my usual arrangement with caffeine.  But my heart was not filled with joy, not the way it is when I’m downing the TMFC.  Not even close.  I am, dear reader, afraid that I have experienced a sudden-onset addiction, similar to what the smokers of crack and the chasers of the dragon claim to experience: one hit and you’re instantly addicted.

But my tale of woe and insidious addiction gets even worse from there, dear reader…for the source of my supply is Dunkin’ DONUTS.  It just seems like a waste to trek out into the matrix to a Dunkin’ Donuts and not return with any donuts.  That’s just weird.  And Lord knows I don’t want anybody to think I’m weird.  So each of my TMFC purchases is coupled with a half-dozen/full-dozen order of delicious donuts.  And donuts are truly made to be enjoyed when they are fresh, i.e., within the first 12 hours of their creation.  I’ve had, like, 40 donuts this week.  Pretty sure the only reason I haven’t absolutely ballooned in weight is because of my quadrupled metabolism rate induced by the various vintages of caffeine I’ve ingested simultaneously with the donuts.

We’ll see what happens next week.

A brief bit of dark Dead Poets business: on this 28th day of March, the DPS requests you respectfully pour some out for Virginia Woolf, who died on this day in 1941 by suicide.  She didn’t just wake up and decide to check out – she had waged a quiet, fierce rebellion against the demons that had clawed at her mind for years.  She filled her coat pockets with stones, heavy and cold, each one a silent testament to the weight she’d carried her whole life.  Then she walked straight into the River Ouse and let the icy waters swallow her whole.  She left a note to her husband Leonard, scribbled with a trembling hand, saying she couldn’t bear the madness any longer and that she was certain she’d never recover this time.  Her novels – Mrs. Dalloway, To the Lighthouse, The Waves – rewrote what fiction could do.  Her final act was tragic, but there’s a haunting power in how she chose her exit, a middle finger to the forces that tried to break her.

N.P.: “I Don’t Know What Drowning Proves” – Participant