On Sundays in Mexico, a lot of people get really, really drunk. It’s their only day off, they have very hard lives, and alcohol (as I’m sure many of us know) can deaden pain. Despite all my years of masking my own pain with weekend benders, I still can’t hold a candle to some of the drunk Mexicans I’ve seen.

It’s not in the least surprising to go for a stroll on a hot, sunny Sunday afternoon and have to step over a man who is blissfully unconscious on a dirty sidewalk, often with his feet lying totally in the roadway. Occasionally, this man is fully clothed, but most times, not.

At times when I pass these drunk men, I feel stupidly happy for them, since I know that at that very moment they are at rest; that they think and feel nothing (glorious, beautiful nothing). I have always been a Bukowski fan, after all. Other times, it’s all I can do not to cry on the street.

Doris, a woman who is a member of the forum I work for, visited Playa del Carmen and snapped photos on the beach on New Year’s Day, documenting the aftermath of the night before. There apparently were many people passed out on the beach.

She took one picture that stopped me in my tracks. At first, it was comical, but now when I look at it, it seems tragic, like a crime scene. He’s missing only the chalk outline around his body.

I’m thinking maybe I should cut down on the weekend drinking.