That’s the link to one of the most dreamy, crushing songs that I love… it comes on like a Vicodin, and sails out like a ship crashing through the sea.
I will come back later for an update, but here is the situation: If ever in the nearly three years since I had my last drink, this would be the day that I have my next drink. I won’t… I have to fight, and fight, and fight, and fight… my stalker has returned.
My feet took my down the beer aisle at Bale’s Thriftway, and I actually yelped and clenched… moaned and hustled through, on my way to get tea. I got my tea, and I got my cigarettes… of which I am going to jump like a lover. So far, so good.
But, being as my addiction… ruthless and howling… is banging on my door, I have to chain it up… hide a shotgun in the coat closet and a nightstick against the wall by the entrance to my house, and plug my ears.
I haven’t gone nearly as far as I could to detail my years… thirty five years of active drinking and drugging… but I will over time. I’m the cop car/coma kind of addict, and that’s no shit.
As for what I have still yet to open up about is the overwhelming love I have for my daughter… she is stardust… and I have to think of her. She is me… I have always been hers since the day she was born. I was the first to look down at her brand new face, and she calmly smiled at me, and… no shit… she did the little double “Okay” sign with her fingers… that peaceful, Buddhist message that all is well. She was an old soul, and she and I… wow. She is blessed to have me, because she is loved… pure and endless. I say to myself everyday that I couldn’t love her any more than I already do… then the next morning I love her even more.
Point being, is that I am in the ring, my gloves are scratched and the stitches are unraveling, but I’m going to play fucking dirty… bite and punch and kick this monster who is bigger and scarier, but can’t quite figure out how to tear of a strip of skin so it can unravel me like a wild yarn. For me, and for my daughter. Although, and addict is ultimately on their own when it come’s down to it. My battle.
For now, I will keep looking at the tattoo on my forearm that has my daughter’s name (please respect her anonymity) boldly pronounced, and wrapped in yellow roses with green vines. I have to be her father, and I have to be a man. Very few things make me feel like a man, but keeping the bottle from my lips is one of them… maybe the number one.
I’m okay… wound up like a top and ready to light a Cuban tobacco factory on fire so I can run back and forth through it like a huffing Olympian.
In case it isn’t obvious, I smoke like a chimney when I’m being chased down the field by the monkeys and dogs that occasionally decide to maul me. That’s how it is, and for the moment, I don’t care. Sometimes, when I think about drinking and all of the other shit I’ve put in my body, I say to myself “Fuck it… I could eat barkdust and smoke a pack a minute as long as I’m not drinking”. That’s not uncommon in addicts. Unhealthy, for those who love their little addictions, it’s comfort, and not so cold. It would be nice to have some nicotine patches though… even though I always end up slapping two of them on and sneaking cigarettes anyway. I don’t do things small.
More later… I’ve got self care and stressing out to do. If ever I was going to go try and score drugs… grass, opiates, Xanax… this would be the time. I find my relief in some questionable corners, but I make no bones about what I do, what I will do, and what I can’t do. I’m talking to you, white nose drugs and heroin from strangers.
Off to fight round I-can’t-keep-track-anymore. I’s send Mike Tyson in for me if I could, but he can’t get close to booze and coke either. I love-love-love boxing.
Send good thoughts my way. I need them.
CEO – The I Should Go To A Meeting Corp.