I've been proud of myself for going a bunch of weeks without drinking. Seven weeks? I quit a few days before New Years. I never told myself it was forever. I don't make myself that promise anymore. It got more and more difficult. What's the point, I decided?
I got dropped off in Kennett to watch a cat. Tara dropped me off, and it was obvious that I needed time alone. I needed time alone to drive my dad's car to the liquor store.
I made mashed potatoes and didn't eat much. I drank whiskey and had dozens of genius-creative thoughts. I called Shawn at some point, and don't know what I said. That was about it.
Drinking isn't a great idea for me because it increases in frequency and dosage until I deem it a problem. I have too many good memories of drinking, and too many future projections to times when appropriate drinking should occur. It's hard to be without, but it's hard to find a middle ground.
Look at me. Look into my eyes. This is me rolling the dice. This is me hoping that I can do the right thing. This is my sincerest face.