heckabros

Burglar Dave
10/31/02 – Halloween

“Burglar Dave!” some skater kid dressed as a vampire said with a big fucking grin on his face. “What’s up?”
The grin was because he’d heard the story.
“Yo, man, I heard the story,” he said, still grinning like a kid holding a magnifying glass over an ant. “I heard you broke into a house naked and passed out on some chick’s dining room table. You crazy motherfucker!”
“Yeah, man,” I said. “Everyone’s heard!”
It was Halloween 2002. It had been three weeks since I was arrested for Burglary. Everyone had heard.

I wasn’t actually naked when it happened, for the record. I was wearing underwear. I passed out on the floor, not on a table. And there was no evidence that I was actually trying to steal anything. But the “Burglar Dave” story was bigger than me.
The truth was that I didn’t have any recollection of the event. I’d been living in Denver for two months when it happened, first time leaving Colorado Springs and my mom’s house in my life. I was underage, so my roommate Aaron and I had our friend Brandon buy us booze and we wound up with a handle of Gilby’s gin. I drank an enormous amount, blacked out, and ended up breaking into a woman’s house a half-mile from my apartment and falling asleep in my underwear. The police report stated that I kicked through a stained glass window with my bare feet. Regina Biur from Wyoming, second day living in Denver, woke up to the sound of shattering glass. She came downstairs to find me passed out cold on the floor. She called the police. And off I went.

The day after I got out of jail, I went over at Shawn Elliot’s house to have a few beers with the usual crowd.
“Burglar Dave!” Shawn greeted me. It was the first time I’d ever heard the name. “It’s nice to see you on the outside.”
The whole room howled with laughter.
“Pretty clever,” I said, trying to extinguish the crowd’s wild enthusiasm. “’Burglar Dave.’ Real fucking clever…”
I didn’t have a chance. Shawn Elliot had a knack for coining terms. And judging by the laughs he got, ‘Burglar Dave’ had already been circulated.

By the time I went back to Colorado Springs for the Halloween party, everyone had heard the name. My Aaron, Brandon and I dressed in drag as the band the New York Dolls. So there I was, coming back to Colorado Springs for the first time since moving away. For the first time since being arrested for burglary. For the first time since going to jail. I was dressed in womens’ clothing. I was already drunk. And my name was now Burglar Dave.

“Fuck yeah, it’s Burglar Dave!” Sabby yelled, holding a bottle of vodka up to me. “Take a shot.”
I did.
“Burglar Dave!” some kid yelled. “Try not to burglarize anything tonight.”
“I’ll try, man.”
It was a big party. Big enough that most of the Denver immigrants I hung out with felt compelled to drive back to the ‘Springs for the night. “Springsbridge,” we called Colorado Springs. It was another Shawn Elliot name. He said that “Springsbridge” sounded like a retirement community.
“Yeah man,” we’d say. “We just said, you know, fuck it, man. Let’s go down and see what you tired-ass douche bags are up to in Springsbridge.”
But anyway, it was a big night with the Springs’ big names. Jimmy Lickass was there. Aaron the Head. Jeremy Hamilton. And O.G. kids like Joel Shaver and Noel Black - the older kids that you usually just heard about.
The girls who lived there, probably trying to cleverly recoup some of the imminent damage to their house, had set up a “bar” where they were selling shots of shitty liquor for a dollar and simple but strong cocktails for two. People were crowding into the kitchen in costumes, mostly gore and trannie-themed. Dracula. Jean-Benet Ramsey with a nylon cord around her neck.
This crowd didn’t really go for the cutesy-ironic unicorn or gorilla costumes popular these days. Or the standard “naughty nurse” stuff. They didn’t really know enough about current events to dress up as political jokes. There were no people dressed as CIA operatives giving duffel bags of fake money to someone dressed as Osama Bin Laden, for instance. They were more likely to dress up as the Twin Towers with half a plane coming out the side.
There was certainly not a serious costume in the house. You couldn’t have shown up dressed as a sprite or ‘faerie,’ the kind you sometimes see wearing a butterfly tiara at a Fort Collins stoner Halloween party. A Norse god probably would have been cool, though. Black was the color, more or less. Axl Rose was present. Men wore short shorts. Women wore mustaches.

I drank a lot very quickly. My friend Brandon was somehow trusted with manning the “bar” as soon as we got there. He was probably as drunk as I was already.
“Burglar Dave!” Brandon yelled over the throng of linoleum bottle jockeys. “we got a V.I.P. Drink up muddafuckaaaah!”
He poured me a gag-inducing rum and coke.
“Yo,” Brandon started, already badly slurring. “You know who this motherfucker is?” he asked to the line, putting his arm around me drunkenly. “This is Burglar Dave, assholes! This my homie! Fuck you tired motherfuckers! Needa reckanize!”
I don’t think anyone recognized. But everyone knew Brandon, so no one got too pissed off about having to wait longer for his drink.
It worked for me, though. I drank free booze from Brandon for the next half hour until he left his station without explanation and hit the dance floor. Brandon danced for a minute before hitting the power button on the stereo in the middle of a song.
“What the fuck?” everyone yelled in unison.
“Hey!” Brandon yelled, holding his hands above his head. “Listen! Listen. I got something to say.”
Brandon clumsily climbed onto the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, and stood there, wearing a pink skirt and fishnet stockings, pausing drunkenly.
“Hallo-ween!” he yelled. “Ow!”
A couple of people cheered. Brandon smiled, perking up before the crowded living room.
“Alright. It’s Halloweeeeen,” he sang, starting to dance along. “Hallo-weeeee-eeeen.” Brandon’s skirt was very short. Everyone could see his junk through the fishnet stockings. The room erupted in laughter.
“Hallo-weeeeeeeen. Uh, uh. Hallo-weeeeeeeen. Uh, uh.” He sang, still dancing. Then he stopped.
“I gotta message for you people,” he said, now whisper-yelling. “A Halloween message. Alright. Quiet! Listen,” he said, almost whispering, motioning for everyone to be quiet.
“I gotta message,” he said. “But it’s not from me.” He got louder.
“Allow me to present,” he said, then lifted up his skirt. “My baaaaalls!”
Everyone laughed again. Somehow, leaning back and lifting up his skirt threw Brandon off balance, and he didn’t have a lot of room for error on the narrow counter. He stepped one foot back to steady himself and missed the counter. Hands flailing in a delayed response, balls still exposed, Brandon fell backwards off the counter, flat on his back into the kitchen and disappeared from the vantage point of the people in the living room. We laughed long and hard.

Brandon’s “speech” was really the beginning of the party, but it was close to the end for my memory. I remember drinking a lot more booze from the bar before realizing that there was a keg in the basement. I then drank beer, talking to a kid named “Grandé” who almost beat the shit out of me the summer before because I insulted his Batman shirt. And then that was it. That’s all I remember. Lights out, like usual.
The rest of my knowledge comes from snippets I overheard and inferred. I was always trying to get information out of people about my blackouts without admitting to them that I was blacked out. But this was one of the big nights, so I didn’t have to explain to anyone that I had no memory.
I heard that I’d passed out on Kimmy’s bed early on in the night. I woke up later and stumbled out of her room and walked up to the top of the stairs to the basement three feet away, where I stopped and stood still. Just as the people in the kitchen were starting to wonder what I was doing, I started pissing down the stairs.
“Dave!” Kimmy screamed, and hit me on the back.
It was like a bookshelf tipping over, they said. They knew it was gonna happen, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. And it was slow. I fell face first with my arms to my sides, 135° down, landed and face-luged down the stairs to the bottom where I finally stopped, contorted into an unconscious, lipstick-smeared ball of urine-soaked, cross-dressing party disaster.
But I was Burglar Dave, you know? This kind of thing happened all the time. I just got up the next day and laughed it all off.

07/15/03: Pissed Wranglers

Oh, shit man! Fuck! What am I gonna do about this?
Evidently I’d fallen asleep drunk and pissed my pants on my friend Katrina’s mom’s couch.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
There was really no way of getting out of this. I was back in Colorado Springs, living back at my mom’s house and Katrina lived all the way across town. I’d ridden there with her and I didn’t own a car – I hadn’t since I crashed mine drunk three years earlier.
I turned the couch cushion over.
Fuck. Fuck.
The foremost problem was my pants. They were soaked with urine and I had to wear them. It was 8:00am. Katrina probably wouldn’t wake up for another couple of hours. Her mom was out of town. But her little sister could wake up any time.
Fuuuuck, man. Did anyone see me?
I wasn’t sure what the last thing I could remember was. But I don’t think anyone had gone to bed by the point in the night that I blacked out – then again the border of a “black-out” isn’t very well defined either.
When did she say her mom was coming back to town?
I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
Shit!
Yeah. It looked pretty much like I’d pissed my pants.
I took off my pants and started drying them with the blow dryer.
Jesus Christ this is loud.
It took forever. I was wearing Wranglers during that period and Wrangler uses thick denim. I kept smelling my pants at every stage, thinking, I don’t know, that maybe I’d blow the smell of urine out of them. I didn’t.
I took off my underwear and turned on the shower. I didn’t want to get my hair wet in the shower, so I just showered from the head down. I thought that if I looked like I’d showered, I’d attract suspicion. And I might have been right. This wasn’t the first time that I’d pissed myself from drinking too much.
This was during one of my periods of dropping out of school in Denver and moving back in with my mom in Colorado Springs. It was a pretty predictable formula: I’d go to school at Metro State University in Denver for a semester. I’d drop all of my classes but one. Except, I didn’t actually drop them. I just stopped going. So I’d fail three classes and get a C in one. I’d spend all of my money on alcohol and live off of rice, tuna fish, and luck. I’d not get a job, because I was “so busy” with school. I’d have my annual heart-to-heart with my mom, admitting to her that my life wasn’t going how I wanted it to go in the big city. And I’d move back to Colorado Springs and not get a job because I just got there and I was going to be moving back to Denver soon. I did this three times in three years.
This was the second time. It was the summer, so I was a month or so away from moving back to Denver. It was warm that summer, even at 9:00 am, which was nice because the only thing I could think to do was go outside and chain smoke when I heard Katrina’s little sister, Gabby, moving around downstairs.
I’d turned the couch cushion I’d pissed on over, but I was racked with fear, out on the driveway, that something would look wrong to Gabby. Also, I didn’t know if she or anyone else had seen me last night. So I just stood in the sun and smoked cigarettes, worrying.
Thank God! I thought. My lighter wasn’t waterlogged.
I saw Gabby through the living room window, so I pulled out my phone to look like I was doing something. I called Acacia Counseling’s automated drug testing line to check the colors. It was Sunday so there wasn’t much chance I’d have to go in. Usually they were closed on Sundays and gave fake colors. But I needed to check anyway.
“Thank you for calling Acacia counseling,” a woman’s recorded voice said. “The colors for Sunday, July twelfth are pink, teal, onyx and green.”
Motherfucker!
The way it worked was that there were about twenty or so random colors. My probation required that I take two breathylizers and one urinalysis drug test per week. Green was my UA color.
I hope to God I didn’t smoke any weed last night. I thought. Oh well, I’ll worry about it this afternoon.
“What are you doing out there?” Gabby asked me after 20 minutes or so.
“Smoking.” I said. “I always smoke a lot in the morning when I’m hung over. You know, I don’t have a toothbrush anyway, right?”
I hated smoking before noon. Especially when I was already hung over.
“Uh, OK.”
Shit, she sounded weird.
“I’ll be in in a second,” I said.
The rest of the morning was very tedious. Gabby was up for good and I couldn’t do anything else about the couch. I kept sitting as far away from her as I could and positioning and repositioning myself so I could smell my crotch without looking completely ridiculous. Not only did I have to sit as far away from Gabby as possible while still being in the kitchen, I had to do everything I could to keep her from going into the living room.
“Haha. Little Gabby and Katrina at Disneyland,” I said once when Gabby was ambling toward the living room, pointing at a picture held by a magnet to the refrigerator.
“Yeah.” She said. “We went to Disneyland.”
“Yeah. Fun.”
Man, how the fuck am I gonna get out of here?
It went on like that until Katrina finally woke up and seemed to have a sense of compassion for me.
“Do you want to go home?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I need to go home.”
We left right away. I tried to be smoking the whole time in her car to mask the smell, but Katrina wasn’t asking a lot of questions anyway. We just drove, not saying a word. We took a left onto Union, going southeast for a moment and grabbed a pair of sunglasses each, in unison, from her center console with the lid long ago ripped off. We drove on Union, both of us with died-black hair and big black sunglasses. Man, we were the shit that summer - rock and roll in a boring town, too cool for Union Blvd. But pissed Wrangler jeans still smell like piss, no matter how rock and roll they happened to be in 2003.

10/30/2003: The First Sip

I was sitting alone in Denver, in my shitty apartment in October 2003, typing.

The first sip of beer always does it.
I sat at home calling everyone I knew, frantically searching for the action. Maybe it was loneliness, or the taboo that you’re a zero if you’re home by yourself on a Friday night. But that first sip helps.
After sitting around looking at the phone,
Asking why,
A thought occurs:
I’ve got a twenty.
A-hah!
The Liquor store!
And it closes in eight minutes!
I am no longer idle, waiting.
I have purpose.
I must make it before they lock the steel gates.
Now I can pass the bar without resentment of the laughing faces inside.
And without shame of being outside, alone.
I can see that these people understand that the strength in numbers comforts.
And I buy six tall cans to bolster my spirit.
My friends will leave me eventually.
But they will leave me with a warmth that few people could provide.

I’d been reading a lot of Charles Bukowski and writing “poetry” that either valorized excessive drinking or occasionally acknowledged the despair that it caused.
I was living by myself in an apartment that didn’t have its own bathroom. I had to go down the hall to the bathroom that I shared with two apartments-full of Mexican immigrants. One or several of them always pissed on the toilet seat, which was made of wood and absorbed the urine. And since it was a shared bathroom, no one ever felt personally responsible for cleaning the yellowed zone beneath the toilet.
My apartment was two bedrooms, partitioned off from the rest of a Capitol Hill Denver Victorian house – one of the few that had resisted renovation and the subsequent rent-increases. I moved in over a weekend after talking to the guy living in the basement who showed me the apartment while the landlord, Mike, was out of town.
“Well hey, man,” he said, surrounded by his walls of VHS cassettes, “I’m sure that Mike wouldn’t mind you moving in. How ‘bout this: Just move your stuff in tomorrow and he’ll get you a key on Monday when he gets back into town. The doors are unlocked anyway.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Does he even know I’m looking at the place?”
“No. But it’s cool, man,” he said, reassuring me with a grey-toothed smile. “He won’t mind. This happens all the time.”
I ultimately moved into the place that day because it didn’t have a lease. This gave me a freedom that - I thought over my third tall can of PBR on that night in October - was uncanny in its unintentional foresight.
I had recently found out that I had a warrant out for my arrest. I’d violated my probation by missing a meeting with my probation officer. So I’d probably have to turn myself in and go to jail. Or, I thought, I could bail out on this shitty apartment any time and hit the road, I guess.
But I didn’t have to decide anything yet – after all, I’d already paid for the month.
I didn’t want to go to jail. I didn’t want to think about it. So I lay on the floor, listening to the song “Jesus” by the Velvet Underground and drinking the fourth, fifth and sixth tall cans. I checked the refrigerator one more time to be sure I was out of beer, conceded, and went to bed.

11/07/2003: Sucking Seawater

“You might be sucking seawater,” Officer Luft of the Denver Police Department Fugitive Unit explained to me at 7:05 in the morning. “You know, you didn’t give your probation officer your new address. I know that might seem good now since we can’t arrest you, but if she’d have known where you lived in the first place she could have mailed you and you might never have been stuck in this mess in the first place.”
There were a lot of other things I didn’t do for my probation officer that got me into this mess, but he was right.
“So what should I do?”
“You need to turn yourself in.”
I told him I’d do it that day, but officers from the fugitive department are understandably skeptical about what the fugitives they’re tracking down tell them.
“I won’t ask you your address, but we’ll find you if you don’t turn yourself in,” he said. “You have one week.”
I told him I’d do it that day.
And I was going to – then - at 7:05 that morning on the phone. But I went back to sleep and started thinking about my two days in city jail the year before.
It wasn’t so bad, I thought. It was like high school detention, but with the bible.
But I was whistling in the dark. I didn’t want to go back. It was hell, really. 23 hours a day of lockdown. 23 hours a day of looking out the thin slit of a window at Speer Blvd. and reading the bible when I got bored of looking.
Last time my Dad put the $10,000 bond on his credit card to get me out after only two days. This time I had a guarantee from my mom that she would never bail me out of jail again.
Last time I had a window-cell and a nice Mexican cellmate who slept all day; we managed to never have to shit in front of each other in the toilet in the corner, and we played checkers. What if this time I was locked in an 8’ by 8’ room with a lunatic? What if this time I had diarrhea? What if this time I was there for a month? What if this time I didn’t have a window?
Last time I woke up in jail and it was too late. This time I was supposed to walk down there and give myself to them. I couldn’t do it.
I called my former public defender. I looked at the internet and read about the courts system. I made call after call. Finally I got myself on the docket for a bond hearing without having to go to jail.
When I walked into the hearing the next week, they thought that I’d already paid bond since I was in court.
After three more months and two more court dates, they sentenced me to another two years of probation and convicted me of the charge that was originally deferred – first-degree trespassing.
“Young man, I’m not sure that you understand the significance of this,” the judge told me while I was on the stand. “You’re accepting a felony conviction that will follow you for the rest of your life. This is a big deal.”
I just didn’t want to go to jail. I’d already fucked everything up so far, so why not one more thing, I thought. I just didn’t want to go to jail.
“I understand,” I said.
“OK,” he said. “But if you end up here again, you’re going to go to the Department of Corrections,” Mr. Boerner. “Prison.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.”

10/14/2004: Davis in a Diaper

I’d already fucked everything up, and I spent another year fucking things up even worse. Somehow, despite my fear of jail; despite my overwhelming desire to be a free man, I couldn’t meet the requirements of my probation. Even though I knew that I had taken every bit of slack that the Colorado Fourth Judicial District Probation Department would allow me. Even though I knew that I could no longer afford to skip drug tests, or miss meetings with my probation officer, I still did.
I simply could not believe that if I drank, I would violate my probation again. I couldn’t believe that if I drank, I would do drugs again and skip drug tests again. I couldn’t believe that if I drank, I would get arrested again, and piss my pants again, and drop out of school again, and move back in with my mom in Colorado Springs - again.

I had violated my probation again, and I was about to go to court again, to stand before the same judge who told me just months before that he would send me to prison if he saw me again. My strategy was to just go easy on the drinking for the next couple of weeks before the next meeting with my probation officer, then quit drinking, so my probation officer would recommend that I stay on probation instead of going to jail. I’d stay dry until I got off probation after which time this whole “drinking problem” thing would have all blown over.
That night, my friend Tyler came up from Colorado Springs to hang out for the night and I explained it to him.
“Seriously, man. This shit is getting bad. I’m definitely gonna have to quit drinking for awhile,” I said, taking a sip from a Pabst Blue Ribbon tall-can.
“That’s respectable, man. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do,” Tyler responded, then tipped his can.
“I’m gonna put myself on antabuse, I think, so that my P.O. can see it on paper. I’ll probably do it before our meeting next week. So I can’t really get all wild or anything tonight, you know. We’ve just gotta chill out tonight, maybe just go down to Benders and have a beer or two.”
We went down to Benders, alright, and we had a beer or two. Then we had one or two more, and some cocktails. Then we went to the Streets of London Pub. I blacked out during the walk.
Tyler tells me that we arrived at the Streets shortly before last call. We were taking shots of tequila at last call, I was told. When we walked outside, I took a few steps down the sidewalk, stopped, then fell face-first, arms-to-the-side on the concrete.
“Dave! Dave!” Tyler yelled, slapping me on the face. “Wake up!”
I opened my eyes and looked at him, smiled, and closed my eyes again.
Tyler didn’t know what to do and started dragging me down Colfax. The cops showed up within minutes, and shortly after that an ambulance came and hauled me away. I woke up the next morning in the St. Luke’s Hospital’s drunk ward in a diaper.
I had to stay in the hospital all day until 5:00 P.M. when my BAC was below 0.1%. They gave me some paperwork with the name “David Boerner” written on it – I wasn’t sure if I’d lied about it or it was a typo, but I didn’t correct them. They let me go and I walked home in a hospital gown and my mostly-dry pants.
I couldn’t drink anything that night. My head was pulsing with unbelievable pain – not like a headache I had ever felt. It felt like I’d died.
The next night, I drank again. I hung out with some friends and we inevitably went to the liquor store. I thought that since I needed to control my drinking from now on, I’d just get a six-pack.
They didn’t.
I was trying to calculate my blood-alcohol content to see how slowly I had to drink every beer to maintain a 0.1 BAC, and my hand-written graph was based only on what I could remember from alcohol classes when I was 17.
I showed them my chart, to explain my strategy. They kept sort of pretending not to see it or understand it, preferring not to acknowledge that I was graphing out my blood-alcohol content in their living room the night after waking up in a diaper in a hospital.
So I went home and finished my six-pack.

11/17/04: Stop!

I drove with my Dad up to Fort Collins to celebrate my little brother’s birthday, and on the way back my Dad and I had a “serious” talk on the freeway.
“You know, eventually, you’re gonna end up killing yourself or something if you keep doing this shit,” my Dad said. “When I volunteered at the Suicide Hotline in Seattle, this was the same shit everybody else was saying. You know what I mean, man? This shit is serious.”
What I couldn’t tell him then was that I had already thought about suicide – late on the rare nights that I didn’t drink and tossed and turned in bed trying to go to sleep. Everything just kept getting worse. Eventually, I used to think, I’m not gonna be able to deal with this shit anymore.
Later that night, I typed this letter to myself, alone in my apartment, crying.
It’s October 17th, 2004. Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday.

I am beaten physically and mentally; have hearing loss in my right ear; am an embarrassment to myself; am a terror lurking in the dark corners of an innocent woman’s imagination; am forced to take drug tests and breathalyzers every week; am a failure; am in debt; have already paid great monetary sums in restitution for crimes I’ve committed; went to the hospital and lied about my name; frequently piss myself in my sleep; am hungover; have a broken wrist; do not have a job or any money; have surpassed greatly what is remotely allowable as a probationer or a “partier”; have lied too many times to keep track of; and am going to jail very soon for a number of weeks because I am an alcoholic.
My name is David Boerner and I am an alcoholic.

Is this life, this shame, this curtailment of my freedom, this consuming fear of punishment for my actions; is this worth it?
Do I want to keep paying for this with my self? And losing more?
Of fucking course not.

I went a long time without asking that question by diverting blame to others and diminishing the truth.
And now I’ve asked that question. To deny any of the evidence listed (there’s more, I assure you) would be lying.
It is not worth it. I admit it. I didn’t have a tenth of the fun tender to pay for all the pain.
My face is fucked up looking – scabs, black eyes, and scars; A friend told me that my eyes made me look like I was always stoned because of how far my eyebrows drooped; I’ve been bawling my eyes out – a grown man, crying; I owe thousands of dollars to hospitals, collections agencies, and courts.
And I’m going to have to pay for it all. Every cent. All the shame.

So fuck it. I earned it.
I lived my life in the deficit, and added to it.
And I begin working it off now.
I’m so far in the fucking red that my own close relations would be out of their minds to invest in me. And I haven’t stopped it. But I am right now.
It’ll be a while until I’m back in the black – profiting from life.
But I plan on begininng to raise my stock this instant.
And here’s the important part, so get this straight.
You fucking listen to me right fucking now David Boerner and you listen good: If you keep drinking, worse things will happen.
You know that because it’s happened for the last five years.
These are the years when things are supposed to get better, not worse.
And if you keep drinking, you will get so far in debt to yourself and the world that paying it will increase exponentially in difficulty forever.
You will NEVER be able to control yourself. You never have been, and everyone knows.
You need to turn around, face the burden and start fucking heaving.
Because you’re gonna be pushing long and hard.
And I’ve heard enough of the “why the hell is it ME who gets so drunk. All my friends drink too, and they’re fine.” Or “Man, I just wish that alcohol didn’t exist.” Bullshit.
Alcohol DOES exist. It’s everywhere. All of your friends drink it all the time and you’re going to see millions of bottles in the future. People are going to agree with you that as long as you drink in moderation, you’ll be ok. And you’re going to tell yourself that you can. And maybe you can on the right night. But you and I both know that on ANY night something HORRIBLE can happen, because it has happened over and over. And you KNOW that it WILL happen again if you keep drinking. It WILL if you try to drink only in moderation. It WILL if you only drink on rare occasions. It WILL, and it WILL again.

So please, man. For you. For the kid who used to compose symphonies in his head in elementary school. For your family. For your freedom. For your future. In order to be proud of yourself, and do things you want to tell people about and have them smile at you, or think you’re an arrogant prick maybe; And to get back your confidence, and stop fucking cringing when you hear what you did, and start smiling, just smiling a little bit, please fucking stop.
Stop.

I stopped drinking that day, five years ago, and I’m now a free man. I still owe some money and once in awhile people still call me “Burglar Dave,” but I’m definitely back in the black.

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