I couldn’t watch you get hammered six nights a week. I couldn’t compete with alcohol.
The “almost relationship” that lasted for three years: Gnocchi with a shit ton of butter and herbs, paired with Bud Lite Lime because you’re ORIGINAL.
I used to have three group messages dedicated to friends I partied with; we’d message each other daily to make plans. I used to take my homework to the bars and work on it between drinks and conversation. I used to have a peppermint candle by my bed that I loved, but I had to throw it away because every time I smelled it I thought of lying awake with the spins and I’d start to gag.
Every night I sit alone. As the rest of the world settles down at the table with family and friends, my need for food or comfort was relinquished long ago.
Society has raised us to question those who are even the slightest bit different from us
I drink. Hell, I love drinking. If that’s not your thing, there is no harm done. Rule number one, though? Don’t make bad comments about alcohol, my drinking habits, or anything else that has the potential to kill my vibe. Just don’t do it.
The past three years of my life were mostly made up of blurry images, of not remembering exactly what happened, of waking up every day trying to recall the events of the night before.
Drug overdoses killed more Americans in 2016 than people killed in the Vietnam War which roughly killed over 58,000 US soldiers. How much bigger does addiction need to get in order for people to consider it important?
I don’t need shots sloshing around in my stomach for me to find reasons to laugh with my friends until tears leak from our eyes. For us to make wild jokes that only we understand.
Can’t we find other ways to get to that openness and honesty that alcohol sometimes leads us to?