BAD FROG MALT LIQUOR

I’ve woken up as a lot of people in my time. It’s a hard act to handle, you know; being in a strange body, not knowing who “you” are, or how “you” got there, wholly unable to discern whose eyes are staring back at you from a pool of filthy water in some random gutter. Yet, on rare occasions, not fully comprehending your current identity can be a deeply pleasurable experience.
I woke up on a beach somewhere in the South Pacific after a hurricane some time ago; just washed in with the tide, broke as a shit house mouse and free from all care. The real bitch of it is not knowing when your circumstances might change, so I used to walk in circles every night, trying to keep myself awake, fearful I’d wind up somewhere else in the morning. It was great while it lasted; I owned nothing and owed no one. I felt the most powerful sense of freedom I had ever known. No one fucked with me here. I was God. I swam for my dinner, and gathered wood in the evening for the fire.
But all good things move toward their end. I awoke one morning and found myself stretched out in a most uncomfortable position; the backseat of a Greyhound bus, side by side with a veritable Who’s Who of mental health.
As I opened my eyes, my heart dropped into my feet, and my lungs tried to constrict themselves into my throat. I sat up and looked around. The endless drone of the engines had replaced the clean, clear crashing of the surf. The cool beach air was gone. Instead, I got a good solid huff of the stale aroma of homeless trousers and fast food. My own clothes were filthy and ill-fitting, and whoever owned this body hadn’t bothered to wash it lately. My socks were stuck to my feet, and my ass felt like a Jamaican sheep dog. I looked down at my hands, so raw and calloused. There was a brown paper bag in my left hand, and I sniffed it hesitantly, knowing full well what I was bound to find. Bad Frog Malt Liquor, complete with backwash.
Jesus.
I wasn’t alone on the seat; a loud trumpeting fart snaked its way up my dry nostrils, making my eyes water. My seatmate asked me for the bottle. I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, but I felt if I started either one I might not stop. So I did the smartest thing I could have. I passed the bottle over, and tried like hell to go back to sleep.