You know what? Fuck it. My family
isn’t gonna change, so why should I?
I’m almost two weeks sober and
they still treat me like I’m boozing
into a blackout every night. Well,
if they’re gonna think that anyway,
I might as well earn it.
Jesus fucking Christ,
that’s good. The bite, the burn,
the sharp carbonation when I
wash the Jack down with a bottle
of Sam Adams. I will say,
one advantage of this twelve-day break
is all the money I saved not buying
the cheap shit. This isn’t top shelf,
but it’s better than before. Much better.
If I don’t finish this tonight—fuck,
who am I kidding, of course this
will be done tonight, but, well,
just in case—I’ll hafta find a place
to hide it. Even when I trash it,
I wouldn’t put my uncle above
digging through my recycling
for proof that, yup, I’m as
worthless as they all thought.
Fucking paranoid asswipe.
That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight,
this bender is mine, and I’m not sharing.