When shit changed for me and I couldn’t fly anymore, I was lucky to make it out of bed in the old apartment before three p.m., let alone make it to a job. I was living in a den of self-pity, cashing disability checks and spending it all on booze, shutting everyone important to me out of my life—then watching all those relationships crumble. The last straw for Mateo was when he found me surrounded by a case of empty cans of Bud Heavy, passed out on the living room couch on my fucking birthday after I’d missed my own surprise party.
