My name is Dash*

Well, internet, I hate to say this but I think it’s time for me to quit drinking, again. I guess I should say try and quit drinking, actually, but we’ll give it a go. Man, this has just been a brutal week for me, entirely self-inflicted. Let’s break it down, shall we? Wednesday, after dinner with my family, I got drunk and watched, appropriately enough, a film called Drunks, about alcoholics. There was one character, played by comedian Richard Lewis, that I especially identified with; he plays a two-year sober dude who goes on a bender. Man, watching him swear at a bottle of bourbon, so filled with desire and self-loathing, I really saw myself. I still got drunk, though. Thursday I went and saw a matinee of Batman, stopping off at a liquor mart first to buy a bottle of whiskey. I bought myself once of those giant-ass cups of coke, and proceeded to maintain my drunk as I watched the film. I drank my way back home, and then met some friends at a bar. I had to leave early, around midnight, as I’d been drinking for about thirteen hours. I went and sat down on the front steps of some random apartment building, where I promptly fell asleep. Yes, that’s right, I slept on the street; a new one for me. I woke up a little while later, staggered home and proceeded to throw up all over my bathroom. I couldn’t even get it together enough to prop my head onto the toilet. Friday morning, I washed my vomit-stained bathmats, and then started drinking around 10am. I think I walked around town after that, but who remembers? I know I hooked up with some friends in the afternoon, to attend a street festival. At some point, I wandered off and got into an altercation with a brick wall, leaving me with a hand that is still bruised and swollen as I type this. I don’t know how or when I left, or how I got home, I just woke up on the couch Saturday morning. I had to drag my sorry ass to work, and after my shift I went to meet some friends for -guess what! - more drinking. Except I couldn’t. You’re talking to a guy who’s been drinking pretty much daily for a long fucking time, but I couldn’t even choke down a beer. It’s like my system wouldn’t take it; the taste was disgusting to me. I attempted to drink a few beers of different brands, but there was nothing for it. Again, I ended up leaving early, but I didn’t sleep in any stairwells, nor punch any walls. I woke up today and went for a very long walk, and I’ve decided to quit again. I know, I know, I have been down this road before, and failed. But, maybe I’m going into it a little wiser this time, with fewer expectations. I don’t know if it will last or what will happen to me, but I think I’ve finally lost my taste for self-destruction.



*actually, it's not.