I'm sick. I'm sick of this shit.

I'm sick of your shit. I'm sick of my shit.

There's a lot of shit floating around. Lots of folks are sick. We're all sick of swimming in shit.

The more I consider quitting, the more I find myself smoking. Every morning I wake up cursing myself for drinking too much the night before; every evening I get home from work, I need a drink.

This isn't a unique symptom. Fuck, I don't know what I'm getting at. There was a moment there when everything made sense; I don't know when, exactly, nor for how long that lucidity or clarity or whatever the fuck you wanna call it lasted, but I know it did. I think it did. Months ago, years ago. Doesn't matter.

The liquor takes the edge off.