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fausts_dreamBefore we get started, a little housekeeping if you will. A small change on your scorecard. m_malcontent, he of the Marvin icon is writing here as fausts_dream. While still an alcoholic and an asshole, FD is in recovery from the former and will try to keep the latter in check.
The entry then
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I hadn't forgotten love.
I was in a tight spot, damn near homeless. Buying my malt liquor at 7 A.M which was as soon as Texas blue laws would allow. My hygiene had slipped far enough the manager had stopped making a show of spraying Febreze around when I walked in to purchase my poison and sprayed it directly on my perma-stunned looking face. And I didn't have the pride to walk an extra 15 minutes to the next low grade Stop and Rob, with the strongest, cheapest malt liquor and the "vases" with individual roses you can smoke meth out of, and t-shirts you could wear or tie your arm off with to shoot something up.
I hadn't forgotten love.
But the people who loved me a little had gotten tired of my bullshit and wrote me off and stopped returning my attempts at communication (even the attempts made during the one to 3 hours a day I was both awake and sober) The ones who loved me a lot, well you can't expect someone to have to watch something probably a little worse than death in slow motion, every day as weeks turned to months and months turned to years.
I hadn't forgotten love.
From the classroom.
From the handshake line in a community theater.
From a soft, zaftig woman in my bed, with lips as soft as pillows.
But all of them were so damned far away from me. I had made my choice and only the worst kind of motherfucker refuses to live with their own shit decisions. No matter how much agony, no matter how expensive the deal, you made it, don't be a fucking welsher.
This is where a decent writer would come up with a pretty way to say this. I don't know if I can write or act as a sober man. I mean I am almost a year in and I recently figured out I can get through a date, and a baseball game. Who cares really, at this point I guess I would rather be a living bad writer than a dead drunk one (though my ego makes it closer than it should be).
No moments of clarity, no revelations, religious or otherwise. Someone took me into their home (I botched the terms and conditions) someone put me up in a hotel, someone took me to a homeless man's rehab. Someone even sang me a fucking song; can you believe it? Somewhere in all that madness, with the tinnitus slapping me into my bed at 4pm each day while I tried not to drink for a few minutes, while my poor dog shit the floor, I decided to live. Tentatively. Thinking it was a terrible idea the whole damn time.
The end result is if you are in a certain Exxon Mobil company town in east Texas. And you step into a certain club with a big porch at noon on a Saturday, you will likely hear the phrase "My name is Fulton, and I am an alcoholic."
The entry then
************************************************************
I hadn't forgotten love.
I was in a tight spot, damn near homeless. Buying my malt liquor at 7 A.M which was as soon as Texas blue laws would allow. My hygiene had slipped far enough the manager had stopped making a show of spraying Febreze around when I walked in to purchase my poison and sprayed it directly on my perma-stunned looking face. And I didn't have the pride to walk an extra 15 minutes to the next low grade Stop and Rob, with the strongest, cheapest malt liquor and the "vases" with individual roses you can smoke meth out of, and t-shirts you could wear or tie your arm off with to shoot something up.
I hadn't forgotten love.
But the people who loved me a little had gotten tired of my bullshit and wrote me off and stopped returning my attempts at communication (even the attempts made during the one to 3 hours a day I was both awake and sober) The ones who loved me a lot, well you can't expect someone to have to watch something probably a little worse than death in slow motion, every day as weeks turned to months and months turned to years.
I hadn't forgotten love.
From the classroom.
From the handshake line in a community theater.
From a soft, zaftig woman in my bed, with lips as soft as pillows.
But all of them were so damned far away from me. I had made my choice and only the worst kind of motherfucker refuses to live with their own shit decisions. No matter how much agony, no matter how expensive the deal, you made it, don't be a fucking welsher.
This is where a decent writer would come up with a pretty way to say this. I don't know if I can write or act as a sober man. I mean I am almost a year in and I recently figured out I can get through a date, and a baseball game. Who cares really, at this point I guess I would rather be a living bad writer than a dead drunk one (though my ego makes it closer than it should be).
No moments of clarity, no revelations, religious or otherwise. Someone took me into their home (I botched the terms and conditions) someone put me up in a hotel, someone took me to a homeless man's rehab. Someone even sang me a fucking song; can you believe it? Somewhere in all that madness, with the tinnitus slapping me into my bed at 4pm each day while I tried not to drink for a few minutes, while my poor dog shit the floor, I decided to live. Tentatively. Thinking it was a terrible idea the whole damn time.
The end result is if you are in a certain Exxon Mobil company town in east Texas. And you step into a certain club with a big porch at noon on a Saturday, you will likely hear the phrase "My name is Fulton, and I am an alcoholic."
no subject
Date: 2024-07-07 03:44 am (UTC)This is raw, but in a good way. I would say you can definitely write as a sober man. ♥
One of my friends used to say, we don't wake up one day and decide, "this is it, I'm going to stick the landing, I'm not going to die", but we choose moment by moment, and it's that cascade of choices that makes it work.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-07 10:16 pm (UTC)