The Ramblings of an Alcoholic

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 13, 2018

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Submitted: June 13, 2018

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As I begin to write this piece, I can still taste last night’s beer in my mouth. It often takes less than one day for alcohol to pass through my system, but this time, the taste has decided to linger for a while longer. Yet I know that even if the taste overstays its welcome and I promise myself not to drink again, I will break that promise soon as a bottle is put before me. The mere thought of tasting alcohol and feeling my mental anguish melt away are enough to push me down the precipice - yes, I am willing to give up all my internal organs to alcohol if it means that I’ll be able to let go. Poisoning myself is a price I am willing to pay if it means that I’ll finally achieve internal peace. I will drink my hangovers away, and thus assume my permanent position as the drunk. I will drink to forget my vanities and then the next day drink some more to forget the fact that I drank the night before. When shame knocks on my door, I tell it to fuck off and then I drink some more. More than usual. More than ten bottles and twenty shots. I am invincible. Aren’t all young people invincible until they grow up and become casualties of time? Another thought that scares me. Allow me please to drink it away. It, too, will drown in a sea of alcohol. Alcohol, my best friend. Alcohol, the only friend that can make me go numb with joy, and not the kind of joy one feels in day to day interactions, but a kind of joy that grants me the luxury of putting all my defenses down. A sense of relief, so to speak, as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Only alcohol can help me achieve that. Nothing else or no one else.
So one doesn’t need a reason to resort to alcohol - it’s just always there, and there’s no way that it will lie or cheat. It puts a blindfold over my eyes and tells me to run, and I do so under its influence, fearless because alcohol has taught me to let go. Let go. Fuck the medication. Fuck the depression. Fuck the anxiety and all the injustices of the world. Fuck everything. Alcohol will always remain a constant. It’s right there, in front of me, providing an easy way out. But I must constantly consume more of it to stay on this path, for I know that if I stop drinking, the blindfold will be lifted. The truth will then reveal itself, and I will see that the road I’ve taken has been paved with the corpses of those who walked it before, those who couldn’t reach the end and died with the smell of whiskey clinging to their bones.
“So take the drink”, I tell myself aloud, “haven’t you always tried to take the easy way out anyways? You’re weak and we all know it, so tap your credit card and buy a drink. Once your credit runs out, steal from your brother’s piggy bank, you’ll pay him back later. But for now, just drink, then drink some more and drink yourself to death, for you will never find the strength to live.”


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