It was on my friend's twenty-second birthday that I saw him waste himself on alcohol. It broke my heart to see him like that, taking on shot after shot of liquor, seeing his face light up right before each glass was bottomed-up as if it were the pinnacle achievement of his life. There, in the midst of his friends who cheered this accomplishment, in the midst of curious onlookers bemused by the spectacle, in the midst of a close friend who made sure the drinks kept coming, he was the king of the night as he took on three or four orders of hard liquor. After each downing, they applauded him as if he were accepting a new crown each time the round was lapped up.
An hour later and he's in the back seat of his friend's auto, dazed and delirious. His girlfriend is clutching the plastic bag that carries the spoils of tonight's victory, setting it down by the pavement and reminding us not to step on it as we pass by to pat him on the back to greet him. There he was like a hospital patient on the cheap upholstery, his girlfriend nursing him to something that would at least resemble his normal state.
A minute before midnight he gets out of the car and tries to walk, but stumbles onto a nearby curve. His friends pick him up and both greet him a "Happy Birthday" and to help him get back in the car. A few minutes later, he's once again regurgitating in the bag.
Eventually it's too early to go home but too late to do anything meaningful, and the throngs say their goodbyes and disperse. I'm left there on the parking lot, reeling from the sadness and heartache.
It breaks my heart to see these people merely living for the here and now, with no prospect for or even a thought about the future, or even eternity for that matter. It breaks my heart to see them live out their most daring moments but face the consequences of their actions for lifetimes to come. It breaks my heart to see them walking on tightropes without poles to balance them. It saddens me to think that people actually find enjoyment in this revelry, that heroes are knighted and kings are crowned on such occasions as these, only to become the victim soon enough.
What I find to be even more absurd is that the moments after -- the drunken stupor, the passing out, the throwing up -- will be remembered as battle scars, and that people will continuously -- moronically -- go with the mantra that "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." They will be told like war stories, and they will be passed on during the next night a round of alcohol will be served, going as far as giving advice as to not smoke after downing X amount of drinks and to eat something and to remember to have a chaser handy.
It's horrendously stupid, knowing that this night will be remembered as the night he took on four rounds, and even though he was passing out and throwing up later, he took on four rounds.
Way to go, man. Happy birthday.
An hour later and he's in the back seat of his friend's auto, dazed and delirious. His girlfriend is clutching the plastic bag that carries the spoils of tonight's victory, setting it down by the pavement and reminding us not to step on it as we pass by to pat him on the back to greet him. There he was like a hospital patient on the cheap upholstery, his girlfriend nursing him to something that would at least resemble his normal state.
A minute before midnight he gets out of the car and tries to walk, but stumbles onto a nearby curve. His friends pick him up and both greet him a "Happy Birthday" and to help him get back in the car. A few minutes later, he's once again regurgitating in the bag.
Eventually it's too early to go home but too late to do anything meaningful, and the throngs say their goodbyes and disperse. I'm left there on the parking lot, reeling from the sadness and heartache.
It breaks my heart to see these people merely living for the here and now, with no prospect for or even a thought about the future, or even eternity for that matter. It breaks my heart to see them live out their most daring moments but face the consequences of their actions for lifetimes to come. It breaks my heart to see them walking on tightropes without poles to balance them. It saddens me to think that people actually find enjoyment in this revelry, that heroes are knighted and kings are crowned on such occasions as these, only to become the victim soon enough.
What I find to be even more absurd is that the moments after -- the drunken stupor, the passing out, the throwing up -- will be remembered as battle scars, and that people will continuously -- moronically -- go with the mantra that "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." They will be told like war stories, and they will be passed on during the next night a round of alcohol will be served, going as far as giving advice as to not smoke after downing X amount of drinks and to eat something and to remember to have a chaser handy.
It's horrendously stupid, knowing that this night will be remembered as the night he took on four rounds, and even though he was passing out and throwing up later, he took on four rounds.
Way to go, man. Happy birthday.
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