I thought, for the first time in my life, that I understood death as a much quieter response to living. Today, I understood how the eager soul-flame waivers in the quiet complacency of utter comfortable misery intoned in the every day. Today, I sobbed in the workroom bathroom then stood in freezer choking on water as I tried to drink inbetween cries. What if she lost her hands? Today I embarrassed myself. Today I didn't tell people the whole story, for the first time. Today, I opened the fridge and for the first time, bare feet cold on the kitchen tiles, I stared at liquor and considered taking it up as a hobby; alone. Today, tonight, as I wipe the snot and the mascara from my face and notice the utter pain in my whole body from anxiety, I think about the worry and the guilt and the should'vebeenthere's, should'veknown's.
Tonight I went back to the fridge for a second time, held a liquor bottle in my hand and then slammed it back on the door and made for my hammock.
There are already enough fucking miserable alchoholic writers in the world.