Yesterday was the anniversary of my birth, which I spent trying to kill myself. It wasn’t the original plan, but as often is the case, adjustments were made on the fly to accommodate new desires. The best part is that I may have succeeded.

It’s been said that alcohol is the only intoxicant in the world where people have to tell you that you’re intoxicated. All others, be they pills, plants, or powders, cause the user to almost immediately exclaim, “Hot damn! I am WASTED!” With booze, nobody ever believes it. They assure you they are totally fine, and that very little of their abilities have been impaired. They say this while they’re laying on the floor.

I ended my birthday last night laying on the floor. A cake on the table, gifts from the Redhead next to it, and the Redhead looking on as I listened to Cracker and bemoaned my “carsickness.”

To be fair, I did feel perfectly fine before getting into a car to go home. I usually drive myself everywhere, so when I have to be a passenger I can make a bad one. I hit phantom break pedals, I suggest routes, and I usually get a little woozy because I can’t anticipate the jolts and halts of the car. Add alcohol to the situation, topped off with a hotboxed cigarette and I was a recipe for disaster. I had plowed through a gin and tonic, 3 martinis, half a bottle of wine, and a jack and water, grazing my dinner plate and not eating enough. By the time the mighty 4 mile voyage through Hollywood was complete, I could only open one eye, I was pouring sweat, and I was very, very mad at myself. Another Birthday with my wife seeing me a drunken mess.

So I’ve decided to kill that version of myself. It’s an overreaction to say I’m quitting drinking, but something has to be done about this. I’m a year older, and supposedly, a year wiser. It’s time to start actually learning from the evidence presented to me and adjust my habits to accommodate these new desires. With a baby on the way and sources of income that double down on the “independent contractor” concept, I need something a little more stable to lean on (besides the floor).

Sure, it was my birthday. And yes, the car definitely made me wicked sick. I could have avoided the entire bee’s nest however, had I not drank a gallon of ethanol. Nobody else was drinking at that level. The Redhead had a cake for me, and I squandered my evening at home by binging at the Dresden. This is the 2nd birthday in a row where the exact same thing has happened at the exact same place. This is not Mike the waiter’s fault. It’s mine. Sorry I didn’t eat the cake you baked me.

The hotshot rapscallion I always try to be is dead. I’m over it. I’m a family man now, and I gotta cut out the shit. Not all the shit, though. Some shit’s still fun. It’s just that shit 7 days a week is no longer enjoyable. I no longer want to Rock and Roll all night and party evv-ah-ree day. Maybe like, 1 or 2 days. Or on a 3 day weekend, because those are rare. 

(ACTUAL Baby Blogs pictured.)

There are other plans for my days in the works. Better get in shape now.