I’ve been feeling great the last two weeks. I know it’s largely due to my return to the bottle. My glass is always half full if I have a bottle to fill it. That might not make sense, I’m drunk again, but does it matter if it makes sense? Shouldn’t the fact that I feel good just be? Nope, I have to vivisect it. I must know why. I must know how.
I used to have a motto: never question a smile. I used it because I have a tendency to interrogate my happiness to the point of misery. I’m broken. I know this. I know every pretty thing is too pretty to be true. Pretty flowers die. Pretty starry nights get clouded. Pretty girls act ugly, along with pretty men. Every pretty thing has a countdown to ugliness.
See, this is me descending.
I’ve had six shooters of Seagram’s, and I feel lovely, I think.
Or maybe I feel ugly.
I don’t know.
I’m happy to be moving in the next few weeks, maybe a month. I’m going home to San Jose, but in a nice neighborhood this time. My housemates are buying a condo, and I’m going to go with them. I’ll be there for at least a year—I want to make sure they’re stable before moving out. After that, I’ll move to Hawaii, South Carolina, Arizona, Nevada, or just bounce to South America. I need to get a job telecommuting first; whether it be writing or graphic design. I’m not sure.
Fuck, I’m hammered. I’ve been doing the one meal a day diet; it was my natural diet before I started taking certain meds and getting fat. Now, I’m off one of them so I’m not fiending a burger buffet 24/7. It’s really easy for me, actually. Food makes me ridiculously tired. I prefer to eat right before bed. And eat whatever the fuck I want. The only prob is that I have to be careful with how much I drink. I can easily down a pint in an hour, not remembering I’m on an empty stomach, and wind up cuddling my porcelain whore…or even worse, go out. Fuck, I’m reckless; coming to at a random spot at four in the morning. FuCK;ladI cant right an;m[yore.
Pretty Words for Ugly Thoughts 
What I was going to say (and this is hard work): Don’t doubt yourself so much. You have good literary intuition and seem to be right about words and such most of the time. Adding a perpetually an addendum that you’re drunk and you’re not sure anymore or whatever isn’t really cutting it.
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I’ve had enough kratom and alcohol to read this now. Brb.
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Ok read it.
Wow that devolved quick. But that’s alcohol. Hard alcohol. It hits you.
I prefer to eat less than American-normal, as well. TED says it’s healthier, so we’re both in the right. Not that you can’t write–you’re just drunk.
I’m glad you feel well. Try to taper your alcohol. The come-down will be better. That’s what I’m doing. I prescribed myself two beers a day (down from three or four) for the next week, then I’m under the medical danger threshold! Livers recover if given time to do so, so no long term damage as long as it’s not too intense and too fast (i.e. ten servings a day for ten years straight, is the actual calculation my mother did once–and upon self-examination, I have no actual recollection or idea how, but I trust her (I think)).
Alcohol used to do it for me. Now it is possible for me to be simultaneously miserable and drunk, so I try to avoid it. My SSRI is a miracle. Lexapro is the shit. What are you on? Do you ever do coke and alcohol at the same time? Can you snort dehydrated alcohol? I bet it would be cold. Some adiabatic shit n such.
Pretty people can be ugly. But it’s usually one or the other, for me, at least. And usually it’s ugly, in personality, but that’s all I see, because the body is part of the personality. Persona? Make my decisions for me. I dare you. You and all you wordpress fools reading my mind and stalking me in the comfort of my home. I have no home. I’m in effect (what’s the latin for that?) homeless.
Digression. Just like you! Mine was worse. Can you tell I want to be friends? You know in theory, italics, theory, in theory, we could see each other in person. I too live in NorCal (but no one on here knows that except the people who really care about me (that’s me projecting and slandering the sarcastic)) and am familiar with San Jose. Big town. Lots of suburbs. Have some friends of friends (non-friends (the only kind of friend)) who live there and grow shrooms. I’m not interested, to cut off the giraffe at the embryonic neck stool. I’m not stable enough for drugs for the rest of my life. But I’ll recover and still italics still not do them. They’re into Myers-Briggs.
This is too much personal information. But everyone’s a stranger, so talk!
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