Adventures in Intoxication 11: Sixty Days Down – Life’s Velocity, Animosity, and the Cleansing Fires of Self Destruction
Sunday, July 31st, 2011 at 11:23 am by Brandon Vogel

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My room is a shithole. Something smells dead.

As I look around at the collection of empty beer bottles and soda cans, tiny mountains of credit card solicitations and scrap paper, old invoice copies and plastic bags strewn about, I wonder how I ended up here in the first place.

To say that my perception of time’s passage has rapidly increased over the past few months is an understatement. I have taken the Waitress into my home and heart, my professional life has become a whirlwind of deadlines and projects, and quite honestly in the wake of all this, I look back and see a mere fragment of my former involvement with the Podsmiths Network, Open Lounge, and Broken Wall Films by extension. It’s been over sixty days since I’ve written an Adventure in Intoxication.

To say that my amount of free time has decreased is inaccurate; I’m just mentally exhausted from the rest of what I consider my life to be. To this end, my store of productive time has been drastically depleted. At some point, burnout becomes a very real possibility…not just regarding specific projects or tasks, but life in general. One begins harboring feelings of contempt for activities that just months, even weeks ago, were fulfilling and pleasurable. I walk down the street and hear the inane ramblings of the retarded passerby on the street, and must fight the urge not to accost them. For a man who considers himself largely imperturbable, this is a disturbing omen indeed.

And that is largely the issue here. Approximately 75% of life’s big questions, daily interactions, and little quirks…I just don’t give a flying fuck about them. I never have. My greater concern is the morons that do. Most of what you think is important doesn’t amount to shit in the grand scheme of things. I am a firm believer in the universal truth that “he who dies with the most friends, wins”. Period. Yet, even with regards to those close to me, I find myself subject to spikes of irrational rage. I am constantly disappointed by people, of all shapes and sizes, in all manner of proximities to myself. It’s a constant battle not to alienate myself. I say horrible things and conduct unspeakable acts within the safe confines of my own mind, where nobody can be offended or judgemental.

This animosity has overtaken the place of my self-worth. I’ve gained forty pounds over the past two years, a good ten of which has been in the past two months. My room, as previously mentioned, has become a haven for unpleasantries.  My daily tasks feel like a burden. I need a vacation from my own life, and I’m not yet 30.

The booze takes the edge off.  Sure, two weeks ago I was too busy to even consider any post-work debauchery, but last week I let myself slide into the warm chemical embrace of Polish vodka every single night. It’s an escape, to be sure, but perhaps a clinically defined one. At this time, I have no desire to change that habit.

The Djarum Blacks on my desk tempt me with their sexy matte container as I hear the tender crackle of cloves in my brain. Cancer has never been more delicious. I’ve never been a consistent smoker, but I understand the allure that perpetuates the rebellious Hollywood notion of the activity: there comes a sick satisfaction with the knowledge that you are, slowly but surely, killing yourself on your own terms.

The moral of the story is that it’s time to clean my room.


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