I never have a headache, but today I did. Twelfth day without liquor was in every way shitty. I felt pressure within my skull. My eyes grumbled when I changed the item I was looking at. In addition, my feet went dead. Normally our loveable two parson dogs seemed today to be a pair of devilish killer terriers.
I woke up at five in the morning and all day I was tired as hell. After the salmon soup I went out as a bumble whip. Awakening from the couch was painful, but I had to knock myself up and go to another stand up club of mine, East Point in Helsinki.
Argh! I felt like I didn’t exist – I felt like I wouldn’t be in the world, but I would follow human suffering through dirty and hardly transparent sunroof. Goddamn it! I had an outside feeling and I was going to present stand up comic, where one of the most important things is to be present. I was afraid that today booze really will affect my presentation fist time in my life. I mean the lack of it.
Probably I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Also my peculiar sleep pattern is probably due to my condition ”cold turkey” (a new word – I learned it from those harsh alcohol drinking professionals who have encouraged me during my dry days).
However everything in the East Point went well. As always, I was the MC – host, warm up guy, master of ceremonies, motorcycle, mother cocker, whore, anything you want – so my contribution consisted mainly of improvising with the audience. I revealed them about my liquor strike and how my daughter Sandra told some fifteen years ago to my mother that she was late from play school ”because daddy drove drunk and tried to escape the police”. The audience exploded into laughter, and I relaxed. My drowsiness evaporated completely when I also managed to flirt enjoyably with the front-row Heidi and her grandmother who had both wrists in the plaster.
I landed on the ground immediately at home. I paid the property tax 18 days late. Fuck, every fucking cent I earn, some fucking clown steals from me. Now, when I don’t drink, those pigs can snitch even more from my purse. What is my crime? To own a plot and a house, half of those, to be correct.