Here’s the good news. In December I didn’t drink for five days in a row. I did not hallucinate bristly worms chewing out of my flesh. I did not start spasming and twitching. No one had to break my teeth with scissors and jam a wooden spoon handle down my throat to pin my squirming tongue. It takes more than five years of binge drinking every day for these things to happen, apparently. Physically I felt fine.
Here’s the bad news. I could not speak to other human beings at night. I did not write literature filled with deep human truths. I did not wake with a brighter view of the world. I filled the hours watching Mythbusters on Netflix. Jamie and Adam build a car that explodes for some reason. Kari Grant and Tori tackle whether bees are really infuriated by… something, I don’t know. I kept falling asleep.
I woke up and life still seemed like a hopeless chore. Quitting drinking is not a miracle. The world is the same, women just look uglier. That’s bad news number one.
Bad news number two: I’m back to binge drinking every night. The problem with not drinking is you have to keep not drinking forever. A finite amount of time is composed of an infinite amount of instants. Every second contains eternity and you are inside it and you have to spend that eternity not drinking while your thoughts tell you: drink drink drink.
Still. Philip Seymour Hoffman died. So someone posted Russell Brand’s piece about Alcoholics Anonymous on facebook. It reminded me: I know where the story is going. I will end up there. All that remains is to sort out the details. One very bad thing will happen. A judge will get involved. I will have to walk in to that church basement full of shakey handed fiends. One thing will break me. And cracking my skull on black tar heroin wasn’t it. Screaming at Ramparts Division cops wasn’t it. Beating up a woman while fleeing the Tarzana P.D. wasn’t it. It will be something worse.
So why not just go. Well it can’t be tonight, I have a date. And tomorrow. And the next day. I need to drink so I can be bold enough to have sex on these dates. Otherwise what’s the point of speaking to a woman. If I don’t drink I’ll be a cringing nebbish. Or I’ll have those eyes standup comedians have when you see them off stage. I hate the world and everything in it and I hate myself the most, says every single comedian’s face. But doctor, I am Pagliacci. I hate comedians.* I bet Russell Brand is the worst of them all.
Side note. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s brother had my apartment before me. Honda of Southern California once mailed him a license plate. I kept it. Thinking: what if I commit a crime and need to get out of town. Surely the cops won’t look for my distinctive antique car if it has a different license plate. I’m sorry, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s brother. I’m sure it was a hassle for you. Also about him being dead.
Anyway. I’m gonna go to Alcoholics Anonymous. There’s one up at the church on Alvarado. I went once. One day when I felt especially terrible. There was this cunt there who I’d met years ago through my ex. This cunty British cunt who gave me weird eyes as I said my name and I’m an alcoholic. So I left and went to the liquor store. Maybe she won’t be there this time. Maybe she relapsed and put her car through a school, got her head chopped off by the steering wheel. Once in a while you catch a break.
* Except you.