I'm useless, and convoluted is my new favorite word.
"I... just... can't... fucking... stop." I'm bawling my eyes out, and I'm sitting on the toilet because I can't stand up. I'm crying the way that shakes a whole body, having the usual epiphany that only seems to happen when you've puked out everything you own. I'm almost surprised that Shelly can bear this, but I guess I'd do the same if she were ever as stupid as me. This occurred years ago, but it's barely in the past.
"If you ever see me drinking anything again, I think it's really bad." I said this last year when I quit once again. I said that to Gary, my endlessly wise and benevolent friend. I said it while I was tenuously sober, and God and I know the truth of those words.
I'm 25. I actually believed myself that I might quit drinking before my 21st birthday.
"I'm really starting to hate beer." I got those words from a friend, and we both know what that means. Everyone loves beer. When you take the first long, deep swig, you know the divinity of what you're drinking. An IPA. But to hate that mother fucking shit. But to hate it.
It's late at night. I'm sitting in the doorway of who-knows-what place in downtown Ashland. I'm puking acid. Is that a carrot? I can't read a street sign. Who needs a sign? I know where I am. I just can't stand up yet. I can't remember where I'm going. I'm wearing a t-shirt and shorts and I'm shivering because it's very cold outside. I keep puking. I didn't eat any carrots, that's a certainty. A guy tried to get me moving in the right direction, but I couldn't tell him where that was. He was the best type of person. I have zero hombres to drag me home, and I caught myself crying and puking in a doorway. Que tal? I'm fucked.