It’s important to have goals.
For those who, by the power of the “drink”, find themselves occasionally aimless, misdirected, or otherwise clueless, Modern Drunkard Magazine has compiled a helpful list: 40 Things Every Drunkard Should Do Before He Dies. I’ve accomplished:
4.) Dance like a fool in front of a large hooting crowd.
8.) Embark on an impromptu road trip. - Michigan of all places, Mass 2000
14.) Buy, build or steal a home bar - In 702 W. Nevada, Urbana, IL, out of a stack of boxes and an ironing board.
15.) Get carried home by your drinking buddies.
19.) Drunkenly watch the sun come up with your best boozing buddies and a bottle. - Cherished memories, let’s make some more?
21.) Hit a dozen bars in one night. - Guns n’ Roses bar crawl, UIUC
24.) Juice on the job.
There’s something about Sunday that’s tired and long. Maybe you had a long weekend of drinking at SXSW. Or maybe you had a long weekend of drinking with your buddies. Or maybe you had a long weekend of drinking alone. Maybe you find yourself in bed with the love of your life. Maybe you find yourself in the bed of a stranger. Or maybe you find yourself on a bed of grass, squinting in the afternoon sun. Maybe you had to work all weekend. Maybe you were on holiday. Still, Sunday rolls around and the world let’s out a collective sigh, regretting the end of the weekend. . .
… and little Johnny Cash seems in order.
Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I’d smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs I’d been picking.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I’d lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.
Then I headed down the street,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
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