Much to my chagrin, I've come to terms with something I don't necessarily like to admit.
I started drinking when I was fourteen. I was dared by a girl I knew to drink two beers, so I told her instead I would drink the full bottle of vodka, and I did. I haven't stopped since then. I don't remember much of my later teens because of it. In fairness, I remember only playing in a punk bank - fat man & little boy - and getting drunk afterwards. I woke up a year ago.
Now I sit in a position where my "love" of alcohol, or rather the escape and the numbness it brings, is becoming sad. I don't drink for fun. I drink because I'm sad, because my body demands something intoxicating. I crave the escape, the pure loss of life.
In the last hour alone I drank two bottles of bourbon and a few shots of Jack. My body is numb, so is everything else. And yet, I am eternally joyous. My face, it's contorted, smiling eternally until I wake. Imagine it, I dare you. Go on, try to think of a world where happiness is incarnated in a drink; a simple liquid made from fruit and rye. Isn't it lovely?
The reason I'm writing this is because I'm afraid. I've been drinking for nine years now. Not long, not even a decade. Yet, I still crave it every day. When I wake up I think about bourbon. I don't love anybody or anyone, I just think about alcohol. It is my dearest love, my soulmate, and the woman, man, or whatever I would choose to forever live with.
I write best while drunk, believe it or not. So you'll have to forgive me if I stop now, amidst my words. I need to write; real, proper writing. The sort that challenges our soul, the sort that makes you cry and makes you burst out into laughter. The sort that makes you thrive to live forever no longer remembering the pain. For all your excuses to read what it is I write, is no different than the reason I write: to escape.
P.S.: I apologize if none of this make sense or if this offends somebody. It seems I am quite good at that, and I truly sorry if you are one of them.
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