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156

It started off with an honest intent, after my sponsor told me he thought I needed to go back to rehab, because I had relapsed.

Because I am an alcoholic, and I did not like what my sponsor had to say, about going back to rehab, I did the only obvious action and drank.

The moment I kept on drinking, I kept on rationalizing why I had to drink more, because that is the nature of as addict.

If I drink just more bottle of whiskey, I will be able to gather up all my things, throw out the bullshit, and enter rehab successfully

If I drink just one more bottle of whiskey, I will be able to throw out all my bullshit before trash day, and enter rehab successfully

And I keep on lying to myself, in weird ways, ways that would make no sense whatsoever to a non-alcoholic non-addict human.

I wish I could use my words to correctly describe how I feel and why I do what I am doing to a normie, but that would be impossible.

If anything, it is like having a gun, and telling you

Hey, bet you I can shoot between my toes!

And I do it once, and it feels amazing, and everyone is impressed with my sharpshooter ability.

wow, cool trick Theo, don't try that again

and then I try it again, and blow off one of my toes.

but instead of stopping the trick, I say

nope, wait, totally got it this time

and I blow off another toe

and all the people who were totally for me, totally around me, finally say

Hey Theo, you might want to stop aiming that gun at you foot

And I tell them they are right, the caliber wasn't large enough, best to use a shotgun this time instead

And what was a foot I used to stand on, slowly turns into a stump...

And all my friends and family are completely mystified as to why?

Maybe just mind your own business, and let me continue shooting this bloody stump, because one of these days, it will stop me from fucking thinking about shit I don't want to hear.

It started off with an honest intent, after my sponsor told me he thought I needed to go back to rehab, because I had relapsed. Because I am an alcoholic, and I did not like what my sponsor had to say, about going back to rehab, I did the only obvious action and drank. The moment I kept on drinking, I kept on rationalizing why I had to drink more, because that is the nature of as addict. >If I drink just more bottle of whiskey, I will be able to gather up all my things, throw out the bullshit, and enter rehab successfully >If I drink just one more bottle of whiskey, I will be able to throw out all my bullshit before trash day, and enter rehab successfully And I keep on lying to myself, in weird ways, ways that would make no sense whatsoever to a non-alcoholic non-addict human. I wish I could use my words to correctly describe how I feel and why I do what I am doing to a normie, but that would be impossible. If anything, it is like having a gun, and telling you >Hey, bet you I can shoot between my toes! And I do it once, and it feels amazing, and everyone is impressed with my sharpshooter ability. >wow, cool trick Theo, don't try that again and then I try it again, and blow off one of my toes. but instead of stopping the trick, I say >nope, wait, totally got it this time and I blow off another toe and all the people who were totally for me, totally around me, finally say >Hey Theo, you might want to stop aiming that gun at you foot And I tell them they are right, the caliber wasn't large enough, best to use a shotgun this time instead And what was a foot I used to stand on, slowly turns into a stump... And all my friends and family are completely mystified as to why? Maybe just mind your own business, and let me continue shooting this bloody stump, because one of these days, it will stop me from fucking thinking about shit I don't want to hear.
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[–] • 1 pt

Bottles on bottles he sat on a throne of bad choices, Where each restless sip he sung a sad tune of the voiceless "Just do it, one more drink, you can't drink when you're dead." And although he knew that the voice was skewed, Although he churned with the thoughts he knew, An angel came and replaced his name with that of a man, Left to rot by himself in a block by himself made of work by a man Who knows not who is but knows too well where's his drink. Assured that the gift is not what they think, Who can save the world with a thought and some ink. Lest he crumbles to his feet and orders another drink. Because each restless sip he sung a sad tune to the voiceless.