I guess it's no wonder
that when you get to the point where you can't hold a drink without spilling it
that you also can no longer hold a job. Not that I'm making excuses, but it just
seems that once you slide so far down into your alcoholic oblivion after so many
years, you are so entrenched that it seems the only answer is another
drink.
My life, condensed and
frozen on the walls of my brain, could not be papered over. Scrape bottom, seek
help, change. Of course, that's not how I hallucinated it at the
time.
My emotions were
addicted to alcohol. Every emotion stuck, stuffed, twisted and blown out of
proportion. Luckily, under the influence, I never had a gun. I wouldn't have
refused one at times, I guess. A powder keg. A powder head. Coked up, luded up,
juiced up, stewing on my own stupored juices. Loose cannon. Emotions addicted.
OMG, OCD, M-O-U-S-E.
"Humor is just another defense against the
universe."- Mel
Brooks
Where do you
turn when '"More" is too much, too empty, too lost?
from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Chapter 44)
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