This is why I never choose to die

I think that there exists few greater things in life, than sitting around a campfire, near an abandoned Winnebago, surrounded by the squalor which only comes from 2 hours of drinking.  Reflections of flames playing off discarded liquor containers; the deep maroon of a wine bottle, the glowing green of a Mickey's; a thousand tiny pin points of light, like the lambent eyes of inebriated cats dancing upon the detritus of a shattered bottle of Old English 800, marking the passage of the drunken release of a .45 hollow point.

These are the moments I live for.

The sound of two bodies climbing upon the roof of a Mazda; the noise unique to the exoskeleton of a car being slightly caved in by, what will surely be, at least one person with an incredible amount of hangover regret.  Hands held, the stars watch.

A turgid plume of smoke, derived from a gentleman's pipe, having left the cloying aftertaste of smokey apple cancer in it's wake, escapes the lips of one intoxicated gentleman after another, seated upon $5 camping chairs, surrounded by discarded "natural" Cheetos and garden salsa Sun Chips that missed their journeys into masticated oblivion.

4 voices and one acoustic guitar, immortalizing the moment with a slurred rendition of Linoleum, smoke and sound drifting upward and outward, lost in the dark expanse.

The desperate, yet content sounds of the biggest fucking skunk ever spawned by a fucking skunk, eating tortilla chips like they were the last tortilla chips it would ever eat.  Nibbles and crunches, constantly nudging me from the edges of sleep, making me wonder if that fucking skunk was going to befoul every other item of food carelessly abandoned by humans, too drunk to care.

The amalgamate sounds of sleeping, chewing, fucking and fighting, conspiring to deprive me of desperately needed sleep.

The whispers of a hangover head throb, somehow warded off by God knows what miracle.  The shock of that first encounter with the remnants of the previous night's disaster; wondering how so few livers soaked up so much liquor, and why the fucking skunk only took one bite of just about everything, save those tortilla chips.

The gelid embrace of a mountain lake, the mystery of the dark abyss below, and the cancerous kiss of the sun on bellies, thighs, and faces, as we paddle like water beetles to cliffs, jutting from the water.  The encounter with sub-human life forms, drunk off 101 Ice and Miller 40's by noon, unsteadily perched on cliff edge, word vomiting all manner of stupidity.

The insults directed to penis wielding bro-tards by the same, comparing them to our vagina bearing counterparts,  for their unwillingness to make the plunge into the cold waters below.  Because courage is rendered null by a labia majora, obviously.

Car rides, conversations, buffalo burgers, PBR on tap, restaurants with no running water, 30 year old Mexicans with 15 year old girl friends, bathroom keys attached to sliver spoons, proffered only after a $5 purchase.

A night and a day, spent laughing with people who make me laugh—it's easy to be happy when most of you're friends are funny.

These are the things, the sounds, the experiences, the people—the moments—I live for.