Young Writers Society

This was an "experiment" on my part - I thought what if I wrote a monologue of a guy getting drunk while I was getting drunk myself? The results can be read below (and they are surprisingly coherent). 

Heh. See that couple over there? Aren’t they cute? Reminds me of me and Mary in the past. Remember Mary? Of course, you do – she was your prom date. Difficult to forget such a thing. Sadly that it ain’t like this anymore…and after we have another fight I often wonder – where is it? Where is the love I knew?

You know, the kind of love that seems only to exist on old and worn out VHS tapes, hidden in a box somewhere in your attic. The kind of love that only exists in those black and white French romantic comedies. The love you believed in when you were young when everything was so beautiful and marvelous when every trip to the amusement park seems like a dream come true. When you believed that you would meet someone, of course by accident, on a party or maybe in class when she would come sit next to you. She would be perfect, cute, smart…a spot of color in a gray landscape. And of course, of course, it would be love at first sight and you will love each other forever and ever. Your dates will always happen in a small artisanal café, always while it is raining and pretty much always in Paris or so you would think. You would run together in an autumn forest, leaves falling around you two and she laughing, pretty like a picture. You’ll grow old together and die on the same day. Stupid childish dreams, I know…but how sweet they were. Then I grew up, got old and tired and that love died. Sadly enough. And now I sit in this rotten hellhole and wonder – where the fuck is that love? Where did it go to?

When I hear about a colleague that is being abused by her boyfriend – is that the love I knew? When I hear about a good mate of mine who is dumped by his high-school sweetheart – is that the love I knew? No, of course not. It isn’t that – it is fucking real life. And it sucks, man, y’know. It isn’t what I dreamed of, not at all. It is for real, but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like something out of a tragic comedy or a satirical take on the modern world. Not like the day-to-day reality. Always working, always away, never having the time to see your girl or your daughter even through Skype and Messenger. And when you home – it is just fighting and fighting and more fucking fighting. I make the money, I pay the bills and the home and I pay my daughter’s studies, for god’s sake. Why is she even angry at me? Who cares that I missed her birthday three times in a row…I did buy her presents. Eventually.

Man…I need another drink…cheers, to how much life sucks when you are middle-aged.

It is like in that movie, y’know, Trainspotting. No, not the original – the new one. The one that takes place 20 years past. Rentons life has gone to the crapper and he finds no better solution to return to his old mates - the same ones he ripped off back in ’97. And the entire fucking movie deals with how when you’re 40 you just have nothing better to do than to think about the past and reminisce about how things were better when we were young. Remember us as teens? Yeah, awesome right. Going to parties, picking up chicks, living the life. And then we grew up and had to face the music. Take responsibility and stuff. Forget your dreams, forget you aspirations – just finish university and be done with it. Master is not even necessary – we can kill your soul even when you’re a bachelor. In all the senses of the word.

Get a job, get a wife, get a kid. Get out of the train of your dreams, to the now and here. Choose fucking life, mate. Choose all the shit that comes with it and please don’t remember that at some point you thought there were some positive sides to it. And then just live with it…don’t care that you are pretty much dead on the inside and that your only solution seems to be in booze.

Cheers, to alcohol and all its positive effects. Or negative ones…I don’t care anymore. I just want to feel good. Want to fill up the hole inside my stomach. The hole that is growing the farther away I drift from my friends and family. The one that seems to suck up my soul. Man, let me get another drink and then I’ll go home…tomorrow it is my daughter’s birthday – turning 18, that little minx. Or 19…not sure. I will be home for it…for fucking once. Finally.

What do you mean I am so drunk that you won’t give me booze ? Fokken ‘ell mate.