Drunken Imbecile - Part I

As time crawls on tonight, I realize the ever-increasing futility of attempting to display even a slight modicum of intelligence in what I do. My mind snapping fitfully in and out of consciousness I act almost on auto-pilot, my fingers incessantly tapping at the backspace key to remove my alcohol induced typographical errors. The haze of the drunken stupor interweaving beautifully with the almost physical touch of the electric glow of my flat-screen display.

Tonight, different from every other Friday night slumped over my keyboard like a troll, I can actually make sense of the garbage spewing from the recesses of my mind and pasting itself on my screen. More than likely the hodge-podge of illogical thoughts won't make sense to any others, but at least it is a start.

You see, I've started writing what will be the notice of my final decline into oblivion. My last will and testament, or what I have aptly named 'The rambling insanities of a drunken imbecile'. Even now in my last days, or even hours, I find my sadism absurdly comforting as my deft penstroke executes the futures, and livelihoods, of the leeches I call family.

My glass of whiskey half-empty, the bottle even moreso, I feel a clarity much deeper than any that has touched my mind in countless years. True, borrowed time doesn't fully sum up the seriousness of my situation, but it is the aforementioned clarity and, of course, the thought of my last words effecting generations to come, that keeps me enlarging my debt to the reaper.

Time consuming as it may be, I have decided that the task necessitates I create a list of those individuals that need be addressed specifically, and in what order. You see, as I envision the reading I squirm with glee at the images of the least patient of those lamprey growing fervent with expectation, bursting at the seams to hear what fortune my misery shall bring to them. Of those which leap to mind, the one that stands out the most is my "charming "brother Ned.

Ned. As if his gafish nature wasn't enough, his lack of mental acuity was obvious in his thoughts that Ned was a perfectably acceptable short name for Edward. Quite as ludicrous a choice as "Ass" one could say, so henceforth the nescient lout shall be regarded as such.

My first recollections of Ass set the stage for what would be, invariably, a slow and torturous childhood... in the beginning for myself, but in the later days, as I realized the extent of my skills and how they surpassed those of my oaf of a brother, the object of torture was Ass himself. His inability to realize the exact cause of his misfortune still brings joy to my failing heart, and for some reason causes me to mention that my mental representation of Ass has been distorted over the years so that now I view him as an ape-like being incapable of much more than enunciated grunting.

The truth of such an image is not entirely irrelevant, and I am entirely positive that as my twisted literary opus wends onward that you will begin to agree... now, where was I...? Oh right, my first childhood memory of Ass...