You can't trust anything that squirms it's way out of my mouth, especially after two thirds of a bottle of Gordon's gin. What was I thinking? Working in reverse I find this frail and bent-over Minotaur cannot trace that frayed old thread back through the turns and twists of the maze. Alcohol, yeah, it's a shitter. My least preferred drug of all now. Nothing else I've ever taken makes you wake up clutching your head and wondering what the fuck went down last night and what the hell you're going to have to do repair all the damage.

It wasn't that anything particularly bad happened, per se. I went looking for inspiration in the bottle and I guess I got it. Not enough pills in this town, that's the problem. Alcohol is a sour high, and I'd much rather just be rolling steady. The older I get the more it feels like a poison. With stuff, the other effects are nice sure, but it's more the disihibitation, the partial loss of control I'm after. There's all kinds of crazy brilliant things inside you, great, wonderful, amazing multicoloured concepts, and of course you want to let them roam free but then again there's also all this darkness rotting in your guts, and if you open that door then sometimes stone lizards slither out as well as magic talking caterpillars.

And that's the risk. And dems da breaks.