I have a code.

Yesterday I had a five and a half hour break between shifts. I knew if I went home, the chances of me coming back were slim. So after I finished my first shift, I went across the street and spent the next 4 hours seeing movies. No, not porn.
I saw the Chumscrubber (The Scientology Feel-good version of Heathers!) and Jarhead (Fuck you, Matt, I thought Sarsgaard was good).
I've been in denial about my cold for about four days. Tonight, I bought meself some chicken stock, a whole roast chicken, two carrots, and one onion. Then I pulled the legs off the chicken, the meat off its breast and wings, threw them in a pot (bones still in the legs, cause that's the key) with the carrots and onion chopped, then topped it with lots of pepper. Then I got out my trusty bottle of Jameson poured me a dram and set the pot to simmer.
Here I am, two bowls and two drams later, listening to 'Vampire' from Throw Down Your Arms.
Suddenly, work and the cold and the fights and the wars and the lack of money and the angst the sadness and the shit seem very far away.
Irish whiskey and reggae can solve everything.
Although, call me what you will, I know that sick and drunk, I will indeed well up with tears and a bit of impotent anger when I hear Sinéad sing 'War' in four or five songs.
Until that day, the dream of lasting peace, world citizenship and the rule of international morality will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued but never attained, everywhere is WAR.
So what?
I get righteously and idealistically angry and sentimental when I get drunk.