Whine Bright Like a Diamond

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gah!!

Yesterday was pretty rough. My brain box sounded like a thousand scorching espresso machines auditioning for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Today I felt a wee less desperate. Just wee.

However, I also felt the all too familiar pangĀ  that peeks its head over the fence after a few days of successful sobriety: the “oh, I’m totally fine and never actually had a drinking problem” feeling. It’s the one in which you think you’ve smashed the hard reset button and suddenly your motherboard isn’t completely fried.

Wrong! That feeling is an adroit liar.

After lunch, as I contemplated my bus route home (no car, remember?), I knew I’d have a decent 40-50 minutes (depending on the route) to kill after work. This meant food… and… drink? Those lilting voices of reassurance cooed, “you’re all good, kiddo,” and I nearly convinced myself I’d have just the barest sliver of enough time to guzzle a martini, shovel a few salty snacks in my face, then shimmy home.

“You don’t have a problem. In fact, you’re perfectly normal. So just get a drink and shut the fuck up already.”

I rode the wave of flawed thinking and false feelings until I couldn’t stand my own bullshit anymore. So I got a turkey and pesto panini w/ a decaf Americano (what a combo!) from this bomb ass coffee shop across the parking lot at work. It was a fantastic dinner. Perfectly satisfying. Utterly delicious. My will feels stronger, and that’s pretty fucking awesome.

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i’m your higher power now

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