blaming the demon drink

More reprehensible shit I did when I was drinking, and making blog amends.

To my parents: I'm sorry I worshiped the devil in your house. That I traded your furniture for a quart of hooch. For the fire, and that I put out that hit.

To my first wife, my heart's desire, my Becky Sue: I'm sorry I didn't wash the dishes unless you begged, that I never said sorry until morning. That I slept with your parents, spurring our pulsating bodies forward on that fateful autumn paddle boat, Baltimore Harbor, 1997. Though I know it can never be enough, I've taken down the streaming video.

To Mindy, my treasure, my second wife: I'm sorry, sincerely sorry I sold our children on E-Bay. What I can say is that each fetched the Buy It Now price, that each faced ground shipping with the heart of a champion. I know that parental pride can only take you so far; after that you want the identities of the purchasers. I can only apologize again, my love, and refer you to E-bay's privacy policy.

To the Gay Men's Chorus of San Diego: I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I disrespected you. All I have is a heavy heart, a dim memory of awakening center stage under a pile of cops, and this restraining order. Please be assured that I intend to honor it.

To the countries I invaded, the Space Shuttle I blew up, the old ladies I mugged, the orphans I stole candy from, the cats I skinned/dogs I ran over and others too countless to name: I'm sorry. It wasn't me, it was the demon drink. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.