When is Too Many?

So, there I am, right,
It’s four o’clock in the day,
I’m staring at this computer screen in a friend’s house,
A middle-aged man’s wife has just left him,
And he can’t remember the cause,
If it triggered him or if he pulled the trigger, making her leave.
Everything since the day she walked away is a blur,
One giant blur, every second culminating at a bottle’s end.
Vodka is water, and he drinks like a fish,
Resulting in his being fired from doing what he loves.
Pretty sad, yeah, but he gets a hefty pay-off,
So he ups and leaves, to hit Vegas, to “drink himself to death”,
Not before burning all of the things he doesn’t want to bring,
Including a picture of him and his wife together.
He can’t tell whether or not he was drunk in that photo,
And he doesn’t really care as the flames lick through the centre of the picture,
Splitting them, then disintegrating them,
Exactly like he wanted, exactly how it was.
So he goes to Vegas, four weeks worth of money,
His aim to be broke and dead by the four weeks’ end,
And there is no Hollywood recovery for this man,
He dies in a crappy motel room in the arms of a hooker he hardly knows,
But who he claims to love.
And then my friend walks in, secretly upset, his tenth bottle in hand.