I give myself a great deal of criticism, honestly, for this way in which I possess a curious sort of literary command despite the fact I'm cross eyed black out drunk. I confess I don't understand the poisonous juxtapose of that dynamic, get up the next morning after ten, twelve, sixteen drinks and face the world with enough fine to fool myself and others into thinking everything is okay. The resistance I've retained is that monstrous, yet on the flip side my short term memory is all but gone. I feel like I'm living like an animal.
Guess I'm in the right place.