Surfacing for air via vinyasa.

Jul 26, 2017 22:02

Day 9. I haven't touched any alcohol in over a week. I'm starting to get nervous. Like, what if I fuck up and hit it again? However, whenever I think of drinking, I get turned off by it. I sat at the Rusty Hammer last night for hours and only fantasized about drinking. The bartender is a recovered person as well. So, he was cool with my soda water and limes, as well as more soda water and more limes. He gets that I need to socialize, and understands my 'situation'.

Also, I can't make rent on time this month. This is a problem. Maybe, I can just throw in an extra $25 to appease the rent-paying roommate. We'll see.

I sent a message to a friend of mine who is recovered. He'd recently posted about the suicidal side of alcoholism, and how he felt like he could end it all towards the end of his personal flood. That post is what gave me hope. Naturally (because I'm me), I sent him a long thank-you message on Facebook. I expressed how grateful I am that he was posting about his struggles without pretension.

I'd sent a message to another "enby" friend of mine, with whom I was supposed to stage at both restaurants where they work. I wasn't able to make it because of monetary restrictions, and had gotten back to them about it in an untimely manner. I apologized. They accepted. Then, I wrote a poem about their feminine side, which I probably won't show them. It's adorable.

I'll post it here. Why not? This isn't just about my idiocy with alcohol or my sexual orientation. It's all about all aspects of myself. So, here, if you're reading:

M.

She tip-toed through the house:
Peeking around door-jambs,
Sneaking into cupboards,
Snacking on leftovers.

No forks, no spoons.
Just hands and fingers.
Crumbs littering a trail,
Her tracks lead to the master closet.

Gleefully, she stuffs her face.
Cupcakes and muffins,
And pastries of all kinds!

The rain pitter-patters
Against the window pane,
And through the open screen.
Landing softly on her tendriled hair.

Soft giggles erupt
As the sugar rush beams
Through a wardrobe of lace and cotton.
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