The Chronicles of the Young and Drunk: The Debauched Decade

By Arnold Soissons Jr

WARNING: THIS BOOK IS ABSOLUTELY NOT FOR ANYONE UNDER 18. IT CONTAINS EXTREMELY GRAPHIC, MATURE SUBJECT MATTER. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. The first in a series of 5 books, join me on this wild adventure. A painfully realistic, surrealist dream. A stream of altered consciousness details how our heavily flawed anti-hero, Arnold, miracles his way from one reckless bacchanalia to the next. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arnold Soissons Jr
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386646518

Book preview

Arnold Soissons Jr.

XXI: Oh For Fuck’s Sake, Not Again

Like awakening from sudden death, my eyes opened swiftly in some cerebral revival. So many thoughts racing at once. I can’t turn it off. It won’t slow down. Roughly 24 hours ago I recall a similar resurrection. I found myself at home in bed, with only a single dollar in my pocket. I was totally confused and unsure of what bizarre happenings had befallen me the night before, and as well the previous eve, and the one prior to that. Well fuck this pattern goes back a while... Anyway, so today it seems my phone is missing, and with it my favorite hoodie and 46 of the $47 I had in my pocket last I remember. All that remains is presumably that same, filthy, single, lonely, stubborn, crumpled, dusty, dollar bill. Now that I think about it, most of those adjectives also describe me at any given moment. That dollar is me. In a flash, immediate despair and self-hatred pulsed through my mind and body, like the damned defibrillator I oft wish would have just let me rest. I have now been awake for all of 6 seconds and it already feels as though the entire world has taken a giant shit on my head.

Ya see that's the thing about alcohol. Legal as it is, the spirits therein will consume you, just as you consume them. But even after you piss it back to whence it came, the inebriatory agents carefully masked by the rough taste that always gives you gas and won't let you up off your ass, are busily disorganizing your intestines. Tons of fun ingredients emaciating your stomach lining, like an acetone bath after having all your skin sanded off. All the while making your liver harder than my flesh scepter in the midst of a coke stroke. At the point where the psychoactive chemicals have convinced me I will finish, though we all know that is tarse farce. A phallic ferocity like nothing else on Earth. Skin stretched tighter than a reggae snare drum. It is possible that the numbing properties in the yayo have traversed my mucous membranes and transformed my saliva into a high-grade, topical anesthetic. Therefore, as I carefully aim each glob of

benzocaine drool at my member to keep it from chaffing, I am actually prolonging the process. Leaving me permanently trapped in the vinegar stroke moment before ejaculation. Sisyphus would be proud of my efforts. In all actuality I must look like a caveman tirelessly trying to start a fire with a wet stick and no tinder, heavily furrowed brow and all. That hard... Luckily, you won't feel your internal organs gradually failing at first. You won’t even realize you are slowly dying inside. Why is that you ask, because booze undeniably numbs the mind, body, and soul.

Yuck, what unspeakable misfortunes have I stumbled upon? Why is my right, Tournament Edition, powder blue, Rod Laver tattered in such a manner? Only a large attack dog or a speeding truck could inflict that degree of damage to such a beautiful sneaker. I must scour my domicile for remnants of last night's self-betrayal. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm... Suddenly, self-contempt writhed throughout my entire being, inch by inch, and then perched itself, like a Homer Simpson rage tumor on the back of my neck, impatiently waiting to burst.

Whose jacket is this on my floor? I broke the silence, what in the... BA-FUCKING-NANA REPUBLIC?! Certainly not mine. Dear God, did I bring someone home last night? If so, where is she now? Did I strong arm rob someone? KILL SOMEONE?! Or had I made a friendly trade for my Ecko hoodie that is yet unaccounted for? What under the sun, revolving around God's green Earth, have I done dug myself into? I am stuck brain first, between a Coors sized Rocky Mountain and a hard place.

Upon further inspection, I located my phone in the pocket of this trendy foreign garment. Those forensics classes paid off. Ahhhh, a smidgen of relief, at least I didn't lose yet another cellular device. The call log shed some light on last night's adventure. So I spoke to my girl at 2:44 AM. Curses! I gave her my word that I would not become haplessly shit drunk again... I am a despicable, subhuman, fucktard. NO, GOD DAMNIT, NOOOO! I bayed at the water stained

drop ceiling. Only the 2 dogs and Mr. Bunny could hear me. Here I stand, still belligerently shit- faced from the night before. No one can help me. I called 3 of my cohorts in the previous midnight booze extravaganza, but even I recall them leaving long before last call. A bar is a wonderful, yet dangerous place.

During all these rerealizations, in this moment of extreme inclarity, intense pain began to muscle through my intestines. It was like some enraged, steroid freak, college football jock, wielding a battle-axe, was hell bent on destroying me from the inside out. What maniacal shit had I