I like drinking Baileys because I am in love with its rich, sweet, and creamy taste. That is the only reason why I find it enjoyable. Its side effect of intoxication is just a side effect.
However, that brings us to a very important question. Why in God's name do we drink liquor? The idea of consuming a liquid that disrupts our mental and cognitive capacity is quite weird. It is illogical and destructive and yet we indulge in the pursuit of this feeling. This feeling of dizziness and weakened faculties.
As I parked my car as best as I could, I was forced to ask myself why I personally drank. I mean, I might not be able to answer for all of society but atleast I should be able to answer for myself as an individual.
This question plagued my mind as I made my way up the flight of stairs to my one bedroom service apartment. Taking a room on the top floor had its perks as it gave me a nice view of the duality of my neighborhood and the rest of the city.
I lived in a city where elegant houses lined a street while the next street was a degrading slum. However, while I enjoyed the view of brown roofs as well as poverty and wealth standing side by side in a picturesque manner, I hated the fact that I had to climb so many damn stairs. Tonight, I hated the fact even more.
When I finally got to the front of my door, my head was already in motion, lurching left and right like a boat on the high sea in the middle of a storm. My eyes floated within its sockets like the rudder of the boat and standing upright began to feel like a real chore.
As I fished for my keys within my pocket I began to wonder how many cups I had downed. One, two, three… I lost count and my thoughts crashed into the question I had struggled with downstairs. "Why the fuck do I drink?"
I pulled my keys out of my pocket and began the tricky task of squeezing the right key into the keyhole. It felt harder than driving drunk and it took me over ten tries to finally get into my apartment.
I didn't even bother to lock the door. My head was banging and if any of my new colleagues decided to pay me a visit, they had freedom to do as they pleased even if that meant ending my life in my sleep. At the time, death would have offered sweet relief from the problematic task of carrying my heavy head on my neck.
Staggering through my living room like a zombie, I made my way into my bedroom and crashed into my bed as the question of "Why the hell do I drink?" kept ringing in my head. My dreams had no answer to this question, instead they took up another topic to serve as the theme of their show. The theme of the play that my subconscious played through the night was Armed Robbery: Fifty ways to fuck it up and get yourself killed.