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discordant and primal wail came up from within me in early sobriety: I used to be a fucking legend!
People just aren’t prepared for the word “alcoholic” to actually apply to someone in their midst.
the last thing in the world I could allow myself to be was a buzzkill. I may have ruined my
am so frightened they will not like this new me, I have never given them the chance to decide for themselves.
DRUNK CHICK GETS THRILLS FROM SHOCKING THE NORMS AND FEELING SUPERIOR; PUKES AT 11. How
mistook my free fall for freedom.
couldn’t be someone new in an old situation. Not for the last time in sobriety, I clenched
Has there ever been a more contrived hour than the “happy” hour? Has any moment in life ever been so sculpted, so artificially imposed over the template of a daily life?
had no self-control in the face of a good time.
It’s a lot harder to make friends sober. You’re pickier because you’re not drinking through their flaws; but you’re softer, too, because you see how deeply and profoundly flawed you are yourself.
Was I giving up, or had I merely analyzed my skill set and made the mature decision to find something I wasn’t too late to be talented for?
frustratingly unbolstered by the enthusiasm and energy a few drinks would have given me.
having a good time; I was just in an endless pursuit of a good time. I was driven not by a zest for life but by an irrational fear—a fear of missing
