The good thing about passing out in the bathroom is you don't have to go very far for your morning piss. Mid stream I realize my urine contains the last drops of alcohol left in the house. This is shaping up to be yet another shitty day.
I think about eating something, but decide otherwise. There is no way I can hold any food down before I get some booze in my system, and besides, eating only makes it take longer to get drunk and I don't know how much longer I can take this sobriety. Sobriety makes you see clearly, and the problem with seeing clearly is some times you don't always like what you see. I wonder if everyone think I'm a tool when I say shit like that, or is it just me.
But, atleast being a drunk gives me an excuse for being such a fucking loser. Unemployed Recovering Alcoholic doesn't have such a great ring to it either. It gives people hope to think that if only I could quit drinking I might turn my life around. Little do they know, I can't turn my life around, and that's why I drink.
It could be worse I guess. I could still be a drunk back in the shithole I call home. Atleast now I'm a drunk living in Los Angeles. Maybe I won't die poor, drunk and alone 5 miles from where I was born, but I sure as shit might do it 3000 miles from where I was born. I'm not sure if that's any better, but at this point it's enough to give me even the smallest glimmer of hope.
I feel a little better than I did last night, but still miles away from how good I felt a few years ago. I think it's because the bed bugs tend to ease up during the day light. It doesn't make any sense, but it's almost as if they can sense when I'm weakest, when I'm really beating myself up, they go for the kill. Maybe today won't be as bad of a day as I thought if I can get drunk enough to not feel anything by the time the bugs inside me come out.
I start rummaging my apartment for any booze I can get my grubby little hands on, when I hear a knock at the door. Fuck me. I can't even drown in my own self misery in peace anymore. I tell them to leave me alone, that I've seen the word of God and I'm not interested.
"I'm not a god damn Mormon, man. It's Roger! Let me the fuck in!"
Misery loves company, and Roger's the only company I get these days so I better let him in. He might have something to ease the pain and I'm outta booze. I could go for just about anything right now.
Roger bursts through the door. As always, he's dressed in only the finest clothes Beverly Hills has to offer. To everyone else he may look like a million bucks, but I know that in his soul he's worth nothing more than a crumpled dollar bill pulled from a stripper's panties. Roger's a lot like me in that sense. Drinks too much. Fucks too much. The only difference is Roger enjoys every minute of it. He's a bastard, but happier than a pig in shit while doing it. He also genuinely likes people, where as I dispise them. I have no idea why he's here, so I ask him what the hell he wants.
"I have to stop by here from time to time to make sure my favorite client hasn't choked on his own vomit. You are far too young to go out that way, and besides you haven't written for shit."
As fucked up as that maybe, it actually makes me feel a little better, just knowing that someone cares even a little bit. That may be the lamest thing I've ever written. I'm such a pussy sometimes it's sickening. I tell him not to worry, but he notices the empty orange juice jug in the bathroom.
"Did you drink yourself till you passed out by the toilet again? You really are trying to kill yourself aren't you?"
Shit. What a thought. I wouldn't say I'm trying to kill myself, but I'm sure as shit not doing anything to keep myself from dying. Not sure if there's much of a difference. Why do I find chaotic self-destruction so desirable? Are Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain really figures to look up to, or were they just fucked up, self-loathing losers who couldn't get their shit straight either? They got everything I ever wanted and they sure weren't any happier than I am now. I'm starting to believe there really is no light at the end of my tunnel. I debate telling Roger that all my dreams are really the same nightmare I'm trapped in now, but he already thinks I'm crazy so I just nod and brush it off, he doesn't really wanna know the answer anyways.
"And don't think I'm going to let you sit around this house feeling sorry for yourself all damn day. It's Saturday. We're going out."
I try to tell Roger I'm going to write today, but he's heard this one before. He stops me before I even start.
"Don't give me that "I'm writing" bullshit. We both know you haven't written a fucking word in months and you're sure as shit not gonna start on a Saturday."
He's right and we both know it. I mean, I've written some words and sentences here and there, but nothing even close to resembling an actual work. For me, there's always been a thin line between writing and drinking, but these days it seems more of the latter and less of the former. I still carry my raggedy old notebook with me everywhere in hopes of scribbling even so much as a thought down. But all that proves to accomplish is making me hate myself more for looking like one of those prententious aspiring artists I hate so much. I wish I could stop judging myself all the time and just enjoy myself for a change.
"My friend's having a party. There will be girls there. And booze."
I tell him I don't like to socialize with people before I'm drunk. It's too much work. Pretending to be interested in people you find boring. But he knows me too well. He pulls out a fifth of Southern Comfort from his suit coat pocket. I reach for it but he pulls away. Bastard.
"I know I can't get you out of the house without an incentive. You are like a dog really. You can have it when we get in the car."
Minutes later I found myself drinking straight from the bottle in the passenger seat of Roger's Mercedes. Saying that, I sound like I think this makes me something of a badass, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I guess his car is considered nice by most, but I am extremely uncomfortable in it. I've been wearing the same jeans for weeks, jeans I bought used for a few dollars at Goodwill, and I stink like booze and cigarettes. In this car, I am out of my element. I belong on the bus with the other undesirables and low lifes. But this is where I'm at, might as well take a swig. I ask him where we are going.
"A party in the Hollywood Hills. I know this producer-"
I cut him off before he can even finish. I don't wanna go to some ass kissing "Hollywood Industry" party and he knows it. Everyone sucks everyone elses dick in the hopes that they'll be the one to help them "make it big." I'd rather stay at home with my bed bugs than rub crotches with the likes of that crowd.
But that was Roger's plan the whole time. He knows if he surrounds me with people I hate more than myself it might make me feel better. And as childish and immature as it sounds, he's right. I may hate myself, but at least I'm not one of them. They should hate themselves but aren't insightful enough to realize how pathetic they are. That's the problem with being insightful, not only do I notice everyone elses flaws and hate them for it, but I do the same to myself.
Maybe I don't hate these people as much as I am just jealous of their ignorance. What I would give to just be a normal happy fucking idiot like them for a change. Treating people like they are lower than me may make me hate myself even more tommorow, but at least for tonight I'll feel good about myself. Even the thought of this temporary joy has me thinking tonight might shape up to be better than I thought.
Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.