*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors

I long for the days of youthful silliness where one isn’t aware of just how close they’re treading against whole and irreparable disaster. I miss that ignorance. Or arrogance. Whichever category you prefer, the result is the same.

Remember the first time you shaved your hair completely off? Or when you survived jumping off a roof? Rolling out of a moving car? Man, those were some sweet times, weren’t they?

What makes me so sentimental about such things is that as time plows forward, we become more wary. Potentially wary enough to be seen as overly so. Paranoid even. After you’ve been scorched by the hundredth mysterious stove burner, you start to assume that everything is hot as fuck and out to kill you.

And that’s a shame. Because it’s that youthful igno-arrogance that fuels our curiosity and interest in life. And it’s those shifty little seeds of fear that eventually bare the nasty fruit of death.

But just like any other shitty song, after you’ve been subjected to the chorus often enough, even if you know it’s horrible and a horrific waste of time to consider, you start humming that fucking tune without even realizing it. Subconscious and shit. Parroting it back with the sparkliest of whistles as if you’d penned it yourself.

And by then, well, you’ve lost your way. Might as well eat every meal at Luby’s before sundown, subscribe to Reader’s Digest, and do 45 on the freeway so the fair reaper won’t have to waste too much effort catching your elderly ass.

So how does one avoid such pitfalls? I mean, we have to learn, right? And aren’t some lessons completely necessary? Isn’t it called ‘wisdom’ or something?

Yes, and yes. But you don’t have to take it so far as to stop bitching about high drink prices and start whining about prescription drug prices.

Many moons back, in a lifetime long passed, I lived a life of frivolous excess. I was an unrepentant sinner. A horrible gambler, fornicator, imbiber, and substance abuser. I was over[whatever]ed, and even though I was aware of the situation, it didn’t affect my behavior. I kept on keepin’ on. If there was more water seeping into my boat, well, I just bailed harder and assumed the best.

And the best thing that could possibly happen to a delinquent n’er-do-well happened.

Everything collapsed around me. Whooooosh-BAM! A life implosion.

Due to my sweet and childish disposition toward the world, I was blissfully unaware that I would soon be jobless, homeless, facing bankruptcy, and under a fascinatingly thick blanket of impending litigation. Plus, I was a drunk. But in retrospect, that might have been the only vice I had that saved my depraved life.

Again: ahhhhh, to be so young and stupid. Nothing beats it!

Nowadays, not that I’m plucking grays or anything, but I’ve got a few experiences under my belt, and I’ll admit it, I’m a tad wary of all the unseen burners all around me. Ever since South-by I’ve been swimming in liquid chemistry and Sudafed. It’s sucked something awful. But more important than it sucking, it’s been muddy. My whole view is clouded, and I feel completely detached. Derailed. Destabilized.

I need clarity. I need cleansing. I need to get some shit straight before there’s another life-implosion. Because eventually my bearded wit won’t get me a free pass. I won’t pass Go. I won’t Connect Four. I won’t drop another Bingo on the board.

I need to detox like a motherfucker. My baby blues haven’t been pillowed in clean white since February. The last eight times I’ve blacked-out, I’ve accused strangers of being communists and/or pygmy impersonators. And I think I’ve chewed my fingernails completely off on at least two occasions.

Hell, if two battered paws of gnawed and mangled fingers doesn’t impress the ladies, then I don’t know what does.

And that’s the short list of what I don’t currently know. What I do know is that it’s time to clear the system out. A reset. Time to dress the scourge down. Get my juice on. Release some of the pressure caused by my enflamed internal organs as they press against my rib cage, begging to bust out into the clean air.

Crybaby organs. But what can I do, right? With the science of developing replacement spleens made available at CVS (next to the disposable lighters) being as behind as it is, what’s inside me is pretty much all I’ve got to work with.

Sometimes we need to go back to basics. Pure, basic-basics. The bare minimum required. And thankfully, now that I’m old enough to recognize the signs of impending disaster, I can (hopefully) head that bad-boy off at the pass and keep things as kosher as possible for another round or two. At least I’ll live to fight another day.

Anyone with any sort of body cleansing procedure, no matter how fucked up and disturbed… my liver’s listening. Intently. Whimpering deep in the darkened depths of my inner-being.