The Mud Is Lovely

Did I mention the alcohol? There's a lot of alcohol on this island, and now there's talk of the ash cloud overwhwelming our plans to get home. And I really need to get home, y'all...otherwise the Brian in me might rise. Apparently he's already risen on the phone tonight, and that's wrong because frankly I can hardly put one keystroke in front of another. What perhaps you don't understand, certainly by my writing of him so far, is how much I fear the Brian inside, the primal me inside, that says grab while the drunkenness and the grabbing's good, and ignore what's been built on a beautiful  whim made good. Grab the people who are in need of wise counsel and use them to your momentary will...
Frankly, when the Brian comes over me, when my father comes over me, it's Biblical, and fates hang in the balance without me even saying so...

So let me sleep, and wake up drunk, and regretting that last plate of gnocchi, and wishing I'd had one sober moment on this island to reflect what might be lost from whatever might be gained, and altogether wretched as only a drunk can be. Bottom line, I don't believe I said all the things tonight I need to say, but hopefully while drunk, I said what needed to be said...apparently time and again...being drunk gives you no discretion and apparently fucks with your hearing too. I appear to have made an arse of myself tonight....most of it in drunken company, some of it with d, some of it with you. This is what happens when your trusted correspondent drinks far too much in a quest to blot out the painful bits of reality. Tomorrow we'll be back to weight gain and all the other inconsequential shit of life, I promise. But for now this is me, wallowing. Come on in, the mud is lovely...Sticky, and stinking, but somehow clean and lovely.