Weekend in, weekend out, I numb my withered spirit by drowning in embittered spirits. Round after round, I drink; shot after shot, I sink. The routine has gotten old, as have I.

Gone are the days when such revelry proved adequately satisfying. Of late, they are just ritualistic reenactments of romanticized salad days. There has got to be something more out there; there just has to be.

As I wallow deeper in my self-prescribed disillusionment, Oscar Wilde’s words come to mind:

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

So pour me another, bartender. Till I reach ethereal bliss, you are my only source of enchantment.