5 Day Blues, or, I Know Why the Bitchy Man-Baby Sings

Pro: 5 sober days behind me. Con: I’m super cranky and want to die.

flamesI could linger and languish in this mild achievement of… glances at Quit That! app… 138 sober hours. After all, the first 90-some-odd hours are notoriously the most treacherous. Instead, I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally perturbed. Angry. Pissy. Crotchety. Tense. Surly. I’m so many superfluous adjectives, I’m getting residual royalties from the thesaurus factory. I’m sure the dryness has more than a little to do with my body chemistry being off-kilter; all the cells in my body shrieking to be fortified with a little* gin so I can calm the fuck down. Apart from that, however, everything else seems to be falling apart, too. The few friends I have left are pulling away. Last week, my fourteen-year-old car decided to lurch from this mortal coil and declare a permanent state of inoperability. My credit is awful. Buying a new-to-me car is going to take money and energy I just don’t fucking have; I’m monetarily broke and momentarily broken.

But I’m single, gents!

*a lot

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