Why Am I Alive?

Another solid 4 and 1/2 hours of sleep last night.

I don't understand why my body doesn't just implode. Christ, I am so tired I can't believe I don't just fall over and die. Every fucking day. I am like a sleep deprived patient in a study designed to test the limits of human endurance. I'm a fucking zombie. Have been for at least 10 years.

And last week I had yet another follow-up appointment with Dr. Feelgood about this whole prostate cancer thing. She told me my testosterone level is not bouncing back the way it should. Not by a long shot after all this time. She asked me if I am fatigued, because that is a side effect of low testosterone. Are you fucking kidding me? I can't keep my eyes open when I am watching porn and snorting coke, for Christ sake.

I always thought that was a weird way to treat prostate cancer. Hormone suppression. Seems unnatural. But I went along with it like a good little boy. And now they are telling me the testosterone is measuring at .39 when it should be fucking 15 by now. Three fucking years after the last hormone suppression injection.

"We'll keep an eye on it." Is that the best you got?

Two overnight sleep studies. CPAP. Melatonin. I've done it all. I'm doing it all.

If you believe the hype, all you gotta do to be healthy is get a solid 8 hours of sleep every night, and hydrate. That's it.

Got cancer? Sleep well and hydrate. Depressed? Sleep well and hydrate. Digestive problems? Sleep well and hydrate. Erectile dysfunction? Sleep well and hydrate. Got the urge to massacre your entire family? Sleep well and hydrate. And they'll all get the chance to celebrate another birthday.

24, 16 ounce glasses of water a day. 8 hours of sleep a night. And a belief in the love and empathy of mankind. That's all you need.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I have found that you can survive on nothing. Heap all the abuse on yourself that you can think of and, still, you will live your life every fucking day for decade after decade after decade. Everybody does it.

Any idea how many insomniacs are out there? Over drinkers? Drug devotees? Emotionally crippled humans? Stressed out, wacked out humans? A fuckload. A goddamn fuckload. 

Tiny voice in the back of my mind says "You got the constitution of Keith Richards." I never really believed that because a lot of people died trying to keep up with Keef. And that is truth. Legendary. You gotta know your limits and a lot of people don't when they try to party with a professional partyer.

Keith is Keith. He knows how to do it right, he knows how to balance it all. And even he gave up heroin in 1978 and cocaine in 2006, quit smoking in 2019, and cut back on drinking in 2019.

But I'll tell you, man - my stress level has always been exceptionally high, and now it's through the roof thanks to the 77 million gullible souls who elected our own personal dicktator so he could destroy my life. I used to drink a handle of Crown a week on top of the innumerable nips I was forced to consume just to deal with my fucking jobs.

I'm a good boy now. I don't drink oceans of whiskey anymore. I drink moderately. Although nips are still required to get me through the day given the menial jobs I humiliate myself with.

And I get no fucking sleep. But I force myself to exercise. I work out when I have absolutely nothing in the tank. I force myself to do it.

So what is my story? Why am I alive? How much longer do I have?

I'm betting on the constitution of Keith Richards. Because if I'm wrong I'll be dead before Jackson sees his fifth birthday.

And he will miss out on the coolest, most loving grandfather who was ever invented. That would be a fucking shame. For both of us.

Fingers crossed.