Just look at yourself. The life of the party, that's you. But don't you see how everyone is backing away from you? They're frightened. Of you, Skewered Pig in the Barbecue. Of what you've become. Of what you're capable of.
You are in a barbecue. With a spit running through the length of your body, for crying out loud! You have allowed the Drinking Pig Company Ltd to pierce you—anus to (we suppose) back?—with a metal rod! You're right, you're right. We shouldn't get angry. But we are angry. Not at you, Skewered Pig in the Barbecue, but at this situation.
Even while you fry in the flames, your skin crisping and your organs bursting, you hold your drink high, away from the heat. Alcohol has become more important to you than your health!
We can see it. You are in pain. (No, Skewered Pig in the Barbecue, we're not referring to the pain of your third-degree burns. Come on. This is serious.) We understand. We really do. Your depression is like a blanket smothering you. Some days, it's hard to get out of bed, isn't it? But this isn't the way. You have too much to live for. Between the barbecue, the spit, and the suicidal ideation, we're afraid you're in real trouble.
Please, Skewered Pig in the Barbecue, get help. Before it's too late. That is, in the next 30 seconds or so.