Tag Archives: 90 days

Day 13

Everyone knows about the beer shits. You solo

a case of whatever’s on sale, then scarf down

half a dozen 60 cent tacos—the ones filled

with sour cream, shredded cheese, day-old lettuce,

and a beef-like mix of ground meat. You probably

lose some in the sink when you’re swishing

Listerine, too lazy to brush your teeth. Then,

in the morning, you spend 20 minutes on the can,

reverse-slurping out your ass.

What you don’t know

is how much that fucks up your intake: about 3/4 liquid,

1/4 solid…no, my intake. My intake’s that fucked up.

That’s why, after week of solid food and zero booze,

I’m shitting boulders.

No, really, I’m not

physically capable of passing this fecal quartz,

these intestinal stalactites. They’re inhuman.

Never thought I’d want a drink just so

I could have a normal shit again.

Day 12

You know what it’s like working

at a coffee shop?  Same as

dealing speed, but we accept Visa.

 

You know what it’s like working

with a non-hangover haze and

about four pounds of crap trapped

in your colon?

Oh, you do?

Fan-fucking-tastic.  I guess

that puts me right on track.

Day 11

Unc, man, you gotta give me some space.  I know

you promised to cart me around for all this,

but I’m a grown-up.  A real boy.  I got this.

 

When are you gonna start trusting me?

I said I was on board for the 90 days,

and have I let up?  That’s right.

 

You’re seriously gonna follow me

for the two-mile drive?  I don’t need you

to go anymore.  Show a little fucking faith.

Day 10

Hi. My name is, um, Joe.

Not really, but I mean,

it might as well be,

anonymous and all.

 

I don’t really know

what I’m doing, but

I feel like I should talk

tonight, be open

or whatever. I was

 

so fucking pissed,

so wound up and…

I mean, I don’t need

to tell you. You all

saw. But now

 

I’m exhausted. Steamrolled.

All that tension made me

too tired to be angry, too drained

to drink. That’s never been a thing—

too tired to drink. I don’t know

what to do with myself, with

other people, with all this time.

 

Fuck, I’m sorry, this

isn’t going anywhere.

Never mind. Go to

the next guy. No,

really, pretend I didn’t

waste your time.

I’m sorry.

Day 9

Finally got a Sunday off,

spent it with my brother.

Good kid.  Ditched

 

Church with Mom

to hang with his alkie

black sheep brother.

 

Neither of us likes the house,

but our pale asses can’t take

the great outdoors, so

 

I drove us to the arcade.

We hadn’t gone there since

I was in high school.

 

He didn’t ask about

all this shit—like I said,

good kid—just kept

 

dropping tokens for

twenty dollars worth

of air hockey.

 

We were stupid with

that game, too intense,

knocked the puck

 

all the way to the

skee ball alleys.

He kicked my ass,

 

and it was the closest

we’ve come to normal

that I can remember.

 

Last time we hung out, last year,

I got him wasted on whiskey and

he took it like a champ.  Like no kid

 

should have to.  I mean,

I didn’t force him, but

he wanted to match me

 

shot for shot.  Getting drunk

was easier than talking.

 

Day 8

You know, forget the nausea.

      Forget those jittery,

over-caffeinated   /  under-rested

tremors.  Forget

                        the detox sweat

                                             that makes me

        smell like a dying goat’s ass.

What kills me

      is not knowing.

          What to do,

       what comes next,

 where I’ll be tomorrow.

I miss the hangovers.

There, I said it.

I miss waking up with

       that swaying headache, cloudy

with a chance of

      puking in the shower.

Waking up sober

doesn’t compare to that first breath

       when I leave the steamed up bathroom,

   when I know everything’s out of my system.

  The air tastes

 that much cleaner

after I’ve put my liver

through the wringer.

                                                            Of course

I don’t like being hungover,

but it makes more sense than

                                      the vague grogginess

     I’m wading through right now.

Day 7

Friday night.  Everyone’s at Happy Hour.

They better be my goddamn friends again

in three months.  All we do together is drink

and play Smash Brothers, and no way I’m

picking up a controller with the rest of them

belching beer in my sober face.  They’re

a bitch to hang around when I’m shitfaced,

can’t imagine how obnoxious they’d be now.

 

Fucking amateurs, still keep tequila in the freezer.

Don’t even know how to get drunk right.  Why

am I hanging out with a bunch of kids anyway?

Not kids kids, but barely-legal-to-drink kids.

 

Better question: why the fuck am I home

by myself on a Friday night?  After 27 years,

you’d think I’d land myself somewhere

better than this.  Steph might still be up.

I can’t handle that tonight, though,

can’t take the just-friends-and-occasional-

drunken-fuck charade.  Why she took so long

to bail is beyond me.  I guess I could call

my brother, but then I’d be with an actual

kid, a sixteen year-old, and how pathetic

is that?

 

No, I’ll stay in tonight.  Alone.

 

Thinking about everyone else is

such a fucking pain in the ass.