now I know when I’ve had enough.

In Between Days | No More Booze, “I Promise” | Pass Me the Meatloaf [Diet Begins Tomorrow, “I Swear”]

[flash lightning]

[sound thunder]

My New Years Resolution begins tomorrow—June 15.

That’s big.

There’s conflict.

It’s the red-faced pseudo-identity holding the pitchfork in my head. He’s got a voice like a miniature cartoon character; like, he’s just sucked helium from a balloon.

Quit now? It’s summer—par-tay, par-tay, par-tay. You should be basking in martinis, sangria and those double-vodka jello shots you’re famous for. Hell, you’re not even holding down a job. Why abstain? Bottoms-up, fatty!

[He’s dancing a jig, jumping over his pitchfork with both legs, gyrating his hips, “PAR-tay.”]

The stuff makes me stupid, I say, and I’ve got ten solid reasons to stop.

He ignores me, stutters now, ’cause he’s cracking up.

Re-mem-ber Pom-pano Beach last Feb-wary? When it was hot and sunny and gorgeous? At lunch, there on the marina, you drank nine sangrias. Nine! Way to fucking tie it on, fatty! Husband had to walk you out of the place.

I don’t want to be synonymous with alcohol anymore, I tell him. It’s 6:30 somewhere. Ginny’s shaking her cocktail shaker.

Note the shadow of the glass cast on my shirt. My boozing precedes me. And what’s up with the waitress looking more bombed than I do?

Aw, c’mon. [He’s jabbing the vitreous humor of my right eye with his prongs] Why not just wait until summer’s over? Drink up, fatty!

It’s no good, prick. There’s a drink for every season. I’m digging the heel of my thumb into my eye. Hot totties in the fall. Mulled wine for the holidaze. 

You’re a dumb ass, and why not wait until next year?  He farts. You know, when you can start good and clean on Jan. 1. 

Ha! Like I intended to this year? I don’t think so. I take away my thumb from trying to get at him. My eye hurts. Why do you have to be such an asshole?

[The jig again] Par-tay, par-tay, par-tay!

I don’t need you. My head is in hands. Pulling pranks and coming up with tactics to defy my mother has long passed.

He’s picking his nose. Going to Faulkner?

No.

You think you can get through the shit on your own?

I’ve come through worse.

Flicks a booger from in between his fingers. No way you can do it.

You’re fucking annoying. God, I hate him. Go away.

To hell?

You got it. And take your fork and stupid jig with you.

The ten reasons, the impetus, to fall out of love with booze.

  • A desire for clarity in the head and awareness in the body upon waking.
  • To regain the ability to read about Nam in the evenings.
  • I’m missing orgasmic delight [hourlong marathon sessions to achieve a “bump” of sensation, sucks]
  • I send emails and texts when I’m stoned, read them the next day, and 1) have no recollection of the content and 2) wonder who’s possessed my mind relating to the content [I can make a guess].
  • Sugar begets sugar—booze gives me one helluva appetite. Like, it’s infinite. I’d like to walk without the fat between my thighs causing the type of friction that could spark a fire.
  • Grow my fingernails, they’re gone—I absolutely gnaw at them while under the influence. [gnaw, bite, chew, spit]
  • Reliance on Tylenol PM—I take one or two a night ’cause the red wine I consume following the martini makes me restless.
  • Stop stumbling out of bed at night to pee and tripping over rabbit cages. I nearly squashed my beloved bunny one night; I fell square on top of her cage, recall twisting off it and hitting the floor on my ass, queasy and a heavy headed, thinking, what the hell just happened. Bunny survived unscathed, a number of bruises lined my legs and hip the following morning. [oh yea, I fell last night]
  • Cirrhosis is not on my bucket list.
  • NO MORE GODDAMN EXCUSES.

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