Picking At Scars

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I need a topic. Lately, if I'm not writing, I'm crying. The rum helps. And then again it doesn't. It numbs what it numbs and leaves the rest raw. My friends help. But they aren't here with me. They don't hold me as I'm falling asleep (except that one time) or make sure I eat something besides bagel chips for dinner.

Most of the time, I have no idea what to do with myself. Thus rum and writing. It can be a good combination. Or a really bad one. I recall getting emails from my mom 'the morning after' asking me about the previous night's posts. 'What in the Hell were you thinking, Stacee?' was pretty standard. Followed by a beseeching request to delete my posts. I rarely delete. I don't think I ever will again.

A year ago it was just beginning. We were just beginning. Now to hear her tell it she's drinking alone and so am I. I know I am.  I had hopes that I'm trying to recover from. I'm pretty sure she has new hopes. And really, go her. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. This kind of alone sucks. It's the alone that compares itself to everything. Believe me, it's shit. Perfectly shitty shit. Even drunk.

I don't like being drunk. A few weeks ago, I had a two drink max. Now, I'm not sure what my max is. I'm on drink #4. I started at 3:30, took a short break and resumed at a little after 6:00. I need a healthier outlet, but at this point this is as good as it gets.

Notice I'm vaciliating from topic to topic, yet not really going anywhere? Yeah, that's because I have nowhere to go. TV? Movie? No and no. Neither satisfies. Everything reminds me of days past and makes me want to drink more. Hell, who am I kidding? Everything reminds me of her and makes me want to drink more.

So, I spend my nights drinking and picking at my scars. And writing when I have a decent topic. Or no topic at all. Clearly. Because what in the Hell was this about. Oh, I know...

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