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Confessions of a Pathological Liar (For Real)

Novel By: Nik Johnson

Anecdotes of a compulsive lying, thieving, drug addicted alcoholic. View table of contents...



Submitted:May 29, 2014    Reads: 50    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   

So this one time I'm at Andy's house, and we just finished band practice with Dan and Sean. The instruments got put away, and the twelve-sided die came out. We were to have a Dungeons and Dragons campaign late into the night.

We ordered some pizzas and opened beers and got well enveloped in a world of wizards and wyrmlings.

I, already strung out on speedballs and wasted, cleaned out all of Andy's beers in the fridge and still achieved no satisfaction with my high. So I went to the fridge and had one of those Oh, maybe I missed one moments.

I opened the door, peered inside, shoving assorted frigidaire items out of the way.

Nope. Nope. Nope. No--...Waaait.

A beer. Not one of those pussy Budweiser or Rolling Rock beer bottles, but a huge, wine bottle with amber liquid inside. It was one of Andy's family's famous homebrewed beers.

The beer missed a cap on it, but I, drunk and extremely high, thought that that should be fine because people don't leave opened beers in the refrigerator for very long, and that it had probably been placed in there after a taste test not but a few hours ago.

So I delve into this drink. Ooh I'm thinking this has a vinegary taste to it. Maybe it is like a wine. Or maybe a stout or something.

I go back into the game room and roll my d20 around a bit and roleplay a fight with a few goblins and kill some shit and find some treasure.

The speedballs were losing their effect but the alcohol, tried and true, kept on a straight course. Whatever drink safe-housed itself in that bottle had gotten me more drunk than I have ever been in my life.

It was also making me sicker than I had ever been in my life. I felt that nauseous feeling in my stomach, my head in a spin, and sweat pouring out of every orifice of my body, which I had just chalked up to sobering up on the speedballs. More H, less booze, I thought to myself. So I stood up to walk back into the kitchen to put the bottle of booze back in the fridge.

That's when I fell down.

I felt queasier than ever in my entire life. This was immediately worse than the poisoned chowder. All I could think to do was crawl to the guest bath room and have a conversation with the porcelain toilet seat.

Dan, Sean, and Andy all stood around me, "Are you okay, man? Are you gonna puke, man?"

"MMMmmMmMmaagghhhHhHhh!" I replied.

"Huh?" They replied.


All three lifted me up, which consequently made me vomit. Dan hoisted me up from behind, and in trying to hold a better grasp over me, pressed his arms down against my belly and literally pushed the red wine looking vinegar tasting vomit out of my body.

They dragged me to the guest bath room and threw me at the toilet. I struggled to raise the lid and tried to watch the vomit make its exodus. I couldn't see a thing, however, because my vision became dizzy and veiled in literal sweats and tears.

In every instance of puking in my life it had always been a release. I knew the booze and drugs would flush, the sickness would be over soon, and that felt great.

This was not what that felt like.

This was painful and terrifying. I couldn't prevent my body from compulsively shaking. I couldn't stop vomiting long enough to draw a breath of air. I couldn't see in front of me and I was pretty sure I had peed myself at this point.

When my vision started to come back and focused on the bowl of the toilet, I gawked at the chunks of meat and blood swimming like ginger kids in a pool, certain that pieces of my innards vacated my body.

Dan and Andy busted in the room, Andy clutching onto the half-emptied bottle of home-brewed beer and shoved it in my face, screaming, "You fuckin' idiot! Were you drinking this?"


"This? This has been sitting in my refrigerator without a lid for a month and a half!"

That's when the shitting myself started.

"Oh, fuck!" Dan said.

"Shiiiiitt!" Andy said.


Dan was a good lad and pulled my pants down and ran out of the room followed swiftly by Andy.

"I'm gonna die," I pleaded. "Don't leave me!"

They left. I guess Sean had left a long time ago. He, being a recovered alcoholic, I think I gave him too much to think about.

A few seconds later a plastic bucket got tossed at me through the door and I, barely willing to crawl to it, mainly because if I moved slightly, I'd vomit blood and shit myself, so I slowly inched my leg toward the bucket and pulled it toward me and clutched on for dear life as I raised it behind my ass and projectile shat into a plastic bucket and vomited my throat out onto Andy's toilet.

I felt like being gang-raped by death. I was a whore doing anal and oral at the same time. I was Chinese fingercuffs for sickness.

This went on for about a half-hour. The main quake lasted a good fifteen minutes while the aftershocks spurted out bits of shit, bile, and blood in not only toilet and bucket, but on the floor, in the sink, on my clothes, everywhere.

I couldn't hold my body weight anymore and I collapsed on the floor--unable to move, my chocolate covered ass sticking out of my pants, my mouth dribbling wide open with blood, tasting the porcelain tile of the cold, cold floor.

Dan and Andy came in about forty minutes after I had collapsed and gave up my fighting, and let all that sallow bile flow out of my mouth like a river.

"Nikki, dude," Andy said. "Dude, I think you got botulism, man. You need to go to a hospital."

I tried to speak but my voice box produced no sound.

"He can't go to a hospital, Andy," said Dan.

"Dude, he's gonna die right here in my parents house!"

"Dude, if we take him to a hospital they're gonna find all kinds of heroin and cocaine in his body! So him, and me, and you--we'll all be fucked! The hospital is not an option!"

"What are we gonna do then, Dan?"

The whole time I was shouting out Take me to the hospital! Take me to the hospital! I could feel my lips moving but heard no sound coming out; instead I just felt a sore, coughing pain.

They lifted me up again and more vomit poured out (the shitting stopped, though), and carefully walked me to Dan's car, supporting me, while still doing their best not to touch me at all. The two got me into the car and I laid in the backseat on a towel that by morning's time would be crusty with shit and blood.

Dan rolled down the window and drove home very slowly.

I laid on my back, looking up at the stars out of the window and for the third time in my life, I thought, This is it. I am going to die.

There's no feeling quite like it. This dark feeling that dangles over you like a storm cloud and all there is to do is wait for the strike of lightning.

"Dan," I cried, breathing in heavily, "you need to take me to the hospital. I think I'm actually going to die tonight. I can feel it. If you don't get me to a hospital right now I am going to fall asleep and never wake up…Dan, if I never wake up, I love you. I love you and I love my mom. I want her to know that. You need to tell her that for me, okay?"

I had spoken this to him and he heard not a word.

"...Okay, Dan?"

My voice couldn't make a sound. I was completely mute.

As my eyes began to grow heavy and I struggled more and more to keep them open, and to breathe, and to lay still enough without ensuing more vomit, I gave up fighting, made my peace with God, and my life, and the world as is, I closed my eyes, said goodbye to myself, and fell asleep.

I woke up in the morning in my bed. My throat felt like sandpaper. I could feel scabs and cuts and bruises. Breathing hurt. Swallowing hurt more. My stomach, much pain. My head, aching. My crusty ass even felt sore like somebody rammed an angry scolding hot crocodile up there.

It was so painful I assure I wish I died.

I ran to the bath room and turned on the shower, took the hose and shoved it up my ass to cleanse away the dried up turds nesting in my poop chute.

After an hour of washing I went to my kitchen and poured myself a gargantuan glass of water. The first glass of water I had willingly poured in probably months. In my attempt to consume I found myself still not being able to swallow without being riddled in agony.

I tried to express my agony with a moan like a dying walrus and to my surprise sound came out; not my typical, angelic voice, mind you, but there was sound. I sounded like Harvey fuckin' Pekar.

I became angry that it had happened to me, not that I did it to myself. I couldn't bear laryngitis, I despised knowing I couldn't drink or smoke anything (don't kid yourself, I managed to puff away at cigarettes), and I loathed not being able to swallow anything other than halfway melted ice.

I wish I could say some moral of this story slapped me in the face and I arrived at some sort of irrevocable encapsulating epiphany other than don't ever, ever drink an open alcohol container if you don't know how long it's been there. Because when I felt better a week later, and quite glad to be back at it, I dove into smoking tough, speedballing, popping E, and drinking until I passed out. I never wanted to stop getting fucked up, I just wanted to get better at it, which requires practice.

~~ © Copyright - Nik Johnson - 2014 - All Rights Reserved


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