Good bye, balls.

Dear balls:

I am drinking herbal tea as I write this. Herbal. Fucking. Tea.

If God existed and came down out of the sky and said I could do it without getting sick, dying or hurting anybody, I would not drink herbal tea. I would start the day off with a joint followed by the first of two packs' worth of Marlboros. I might have a bloody mary, or just some Baileys in my coffee for breakfast.

I'd take something to keep me awake until noon when I'd smoke another joint, finishing the day off with beers until evening. A nice stiff scotch after work, and a cigar. Another joint before bed. At least once a month, eat some mushrooms. If I could.

Can't. When I was forced reluctantly to quit drinking and taking drugs I held on to coffee and cigarettes with white-knuckled hands. I held on to you.

After I quit smoking (a few times) all I've really had left is caffeine. And now my very sensitive and delicate constitution has made it impossible for me to drink much of that anymore. I'm getting sledgehammer headaches every day if I don't drink coffee soon enough in the morning, or have it five minutes too late, or just because my body feels like fucking with me. There's the term "free buzz." I get free hangovers.

So here I am drinking herbal tea and mourning the loss of you, my balls. I'm putting you on the shelf in a little box along with my 20-year-old cassette tape of "Live Fast Die Young" by the Circle Jerks. It's time for James Taylor now, or some other neutered folk singer. Now it's Live Slow Die One Day at a Fucking Time.

Lo, It's time for the Dad Shorts and the fanny pack, the socks with sandals and those threadbare tee shirts that Dad Frumps, who are usually old, always seem to wear, promoting long-past and forgettable charity sporting events --- The Race for Rickets or something. The Mumps Walk. Canoeing for Cholera.

So good bye, balls. It was great while it lasted but it wasn't meant to be. It's not you, it's me.