I may well be an alcoholic. *Revised version has been published

Apple Juice Alcohol

Poetic, edited version:

I may well be an alcoholic.

How do you know if you’re an alcoholic?
Do your friends tell you?
Do you stop having friends?
Do you just fall down and die?
Does the coroner in the morgue write
“alcohol”
on a sheet of paper, next to the words
“Cause of Death?”
Is alcohol even a viable cause of death?

I’m sure there has to be a better reason.

Liver failure, heart attack—alcohol is just a beverage.
No one has ever died of apple juice,
have they?
I guess they could say I died of
alcohol poisoning,
but that’s just not a good way to go out.
I’d rather die from apple juice.

“How’d Zach die?” my friends would ask.
“Apple juice, I’m afraid,” the coroner would reply,
shaking his bald, liver-spotted head.
“Apple juice?”
“Yes, apple juice.”
“Oh,” my friends would say,
nonchalant and expectant in their demeanor,
“we always knew he’d amount to greatness.”

My parents would probably be sad,
but I don’t think they’d be too sad.
It’s hard not to laugh when my
cause of death is a children’s beverage,
unspecific in its details.
Did I choke?
Did I have a blood apple juice content of over 4.0?
Was I murdered by an animated body of apple juice?
No one would ever know for sure.
All you would know is that
my funeral would be a party,
with a carousel,
and a roller coaster,
and a petting zoo,
and one of those spinning-gravity-things,
and no one would be sad,
‘cause mourning is for chumps.
You’ll laugh
and smile
and play games
and listen to good music
and get drunk
and drink apple juice
—an ironic memorial—
and everyone would have a good time.
After all,
the types of people
that would mysteriously die at the
figurative,
or perhaps literal,
hands of apple juice
do not deserve sadness.
We are not chumps.
We are winners.
Poor,
dead,
alcoholic winners
(in no particular order).

Original stream of consciousness:

How do you know if you’re an alcoholic? Do your friends tell you? Do you stop having friends? Do you just fall down and die? Is alcohol even a viable excuse for death? Would the doctor in the E.R. write “alcohol” on a sheet of paper, next to the words “cause of death?” I’m sure there has to be a better reason. Liver failure, heart attack—alcohol is just a beverage. You wouldn’t hear “he died of apple juice,” would you? Well, I guess you could explain the death as being “alcohol poisoning,” but, regardless, that’s just not a good way to go out. I’d rather die from apple juice. “How’d Zach die?” my friends would ask. “Apple juice, I’m afraid,” the coroner would reply, shaking his slowly. “Apple juice?” “Yes, apple juice.” “Oh,” my friends will proudly say, “we always knew he’d amount to greatness.” My parents would probably be sad, but I don’t think they’d be too sad. It’s hard not to laugh when the cause of death is a children’s drink, unspecific in its details. Did I choke? Did I have a blood apple juice content of over 4.0? Did I get murdered by an animated body of apple juice? No one would ever know for sure. The only definite would be that my funeral would be a party, with a Ferris wheel and petting zoo, and no one would be sad, ‘cause mourning is for fools. Everyone would laugh and smile and play games and listen to good music and drink apple juice—as an ironic memorial—and everyone would have a good time. After all, people that mysteriously die at the figurative, or perhaps literal, hands of apple juice do not want sadness. They are not fools. They are winners. Poor, dead, thirsty winners.

 

Edited #2:

I may well be an alcoholic.

How do you know if you’re an alcoholic?
Do your friends tell you?
Do you stop having friends?
Do you just fall down and die?
Does the coroner in the morgue write
“alcohol”
on a sheet of paper, next to the words
“Cause of Death?”
Is alcohol even a viable cause of death?

I’m sure there has to be a better reason.

Liver failure, heart attack—alcohol is just a beverage.
No one has ever died of apple juice,
have they?
I guess they could say I died of alcohol poisoning,
but that’s just not a good way to go out.
I’d rather die from apple juice.

“How’d Zach die?” my friends would ask.
“Apple juice, I’m afraid,” the coroner would reply,
shaking his bald, liver-spotted head.
“Apple juice?”
“Yes, apple juice.”
“Oh,” my friends would say,
nonchalant and expectant in their demeanor,
“we always knew he’d amount to greatness.”

My parents would probably be sad,
but I don’t think they’d be too sad.
It’s hard not to laugh when my cause of death is
a children’s beverage,
unspecific in its details.
Did I choke?
Did I have a blood apple juice content of over 4.0?
Was I murdered by an anthropomorphic body of apple juice?
No one would ever know for sure.
Regardless,
my funeral would be a party,
with a carousel,
and a roller coaster,
and a petting zoo,
and one of those spinning-gravity-things,
and no one would be sad,
‘cause mourning is for chumps.
You’ll laugh
and smile
and play games
and listen to good music
and get drunk
and drink apple juice
—an ironic memorial—
and everyone would have a good time.
After all,
the types of people
that would mysteriously die at the
figurative,
or perhaps literal,
hands of apple juice
do not deserve sadness.
We are not chumps.
We are winners.
Poor,
dead,
alcoholic winners
(in no particular order).

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