I was a drunken werepig

Human beings aren't really all that different from one another. We all like to eat, we all like to be loved, we all like to drink beer with our closest friends until we're painfully bloated and farty. The pig lurks in every one of us. Mother, sister, nun, patrician, I don't care who you are. Every one of us is, in their own way, a drunken, filthy, completely self-serving paragon of all that is peccary. We all go our piggish ways in our own pig fashion, and the good ones among us try not to fuck up anyone else's piggery in the process.

There are moments, however, when the normal order of the universe is dramatically interrupted, when an impossibly complex convergence of events rips apart the very fabric of consensus reality. Normal, everyday pig-reasoning is involuntarily cast by the wayside like a defective, shit-encrusted condom.

I am, of course, referring to those dark moments when our thoughts are not our own, when the beast inside us rears its head and lets forth from Cheeto-encrusted lips a primal, ear-shattering, beer-reeking squeal. I am speaking of those moments when we are seized with the inexplicable need to consume far beyond our human capacity. There's absolutely no reason why you should eat another plate of hot wings with ranch dressing. Why in the world do you need to smoke another bowl, you're already high as a kite? You've been drinking Pabst since nine o'clock this morning and the $6.11 you're waiting in line to spend for the next 12-pack will almost certainly overdraw your bank account. You've already fucked the woman laying next to you 5 times in the past 29 hours. Neither of you have seen the light of day or even gotten out of bed in that entire time. Your aching penis hasn't been washed off once. You began to fool around again. Why? WHY?

I was a drunken werepig.

We're all going to die someday. One day, everything will be gone. All the pretty flowers, all the birds, all the lampreys and the hagfish too. But until then I will live each day with the understanding that, when the moment comes, I will heed the beast's call. When my gaze turns skyward to a full moon made of fetid, three day old pizza, sticky, syrupy buds, neverending IVs of shitty domestic beer, and endless orgasm, I will feel no regret, no remorse. I will live, simply and beautifully, content in the knowledge that....

I was a drunken werepig.