Man: a being in search of meaning. - Plato

Who am I?

An ageless question that has been asked by man for as long as we have been here. Well, as long as man has had cognitive thought anyway. Because before that, man wouldn’t have even thought twice about why he soiled himself. But I digress.

Who am I?

That’s the first answer that I am trying to ascertain from my troubled and toxic past. I know it sounds quite droll, or even that I am on some sort of philosophical journey to re-discover myself and my purpose in this quandary of a world we reside in. It is to a certain degree, but it’s also a simple fact that I am trying to discern.

Who am I? I haven’t the foggiest. I cannot, for the life of me, remember my actual, God-given name. So I thought to check my wallet for my driver’s license. And irritatingly enough, there was no license. I’m guessing that it was probably revoked because of one too many cases of driving while being impaired. There was however an identification card (no doubt so that I could provide myself with more “power up juice” as I was apt to call it), a frequent shopper card for a liquor store (charming), and the phone number from what I can only imagine is a very non-attractive waitress from the Waffle House. Oh, and one single dollar with the note “To be used at the nudey bar” written on it. I guess that was my savings account.

You must all be expecting my identification card to have my birth name on it, as was I. Instead, it was scratched out and had “LiuQid CouRAge” written in permanent marker. Red permanent marker to be precise. So that provided nothing.

Rummaging around my room, it’s a sty really, provided no better clues to my actual identity. Empty beer cans and liquor bottles, pornographic material, direct mailings, newspaper clippings, more pornography, empty pizza boxes, several Curious George and Nancy Drew books, a half-empty box of cigars, and oddly enough what appeared to be a second printing of Milton’s Paradise Lost that was in excellent condition. Alas, when I opened it, it was hollowed out with a space for a small bottle of Jim Beam and 2 condoms. At least he practiced safe sex. I hope.

But none of this had a name on it other than “Liquid Courage” to my dismay. So I’m off to see the local authorities to see if they have any good conception of my actual identity. No doubt they will have had numerous run-ins with my past self and will be able to provide me with the answers I seek.

Yours,
"Liquid Courage"
*sigh*