(no subject)
As of late you’ve been feeling particularly alone, but you have been forcing yourself to remain optimistic for the sake of keeping your anxiety to a bare minimum. This morning the sound of the radio woke you. You were upset at the fact that pre-recorded voices were the only thing to pull you into consciousness, rather then the resonance of an insecure lover. You shiver as you bitterly recall how she hopelessly clung to your motionless body until you would wake. She would be shivering, but you’d pull her in and remain still until you both began to perspire from the culmination of body heat. You were quite familiar with the taste of her sweat and tears as they were quite distinct; almost comforting. She was the conformation to your mornings. The start of each day’s progression wouldn’t be set unless you felt her small frame next to you, shivering. She’s long gone now, and since her departure you feel as though time is non-linear.
The taste in your mouth is stale. Did you remember to brush your teeth last night? The last you remember of your tooth brush is that one drunken night; someone was using it to scrape vomit off of the linoleum. You’re hung-over. You’re alone. Dad always taught you that if you take a shot in the morning of what had consumed YOU last night, you would be hangover-free. You reach for the liquor cabinet and prepare a few shots. Cheers, to yourself. Upon the first taste of alcohol you retch, then vomit. You stare at the remnants of last night’s dinner, scattered about your floor and begin to laugh. You laugh for a few minutes until you reach into the cabinet and kiss the bottle again. You wonder when the last time you have had contact with another female sober. Cheers. This is for you. This is for me. This is for us. This is for every other lonely, lovesick alcoholic bastard waking up to a floor full of vomit.
And it seemingly won’t get better.
The taste in your mouth is stale. Did you remember to brush your teeth last night? The last you remember of your tooth brush is that one drunken night; someone was using it to scrape vomit off of the linoleum. You’re hung-over. You’re alone. Dad always taught you that if you take a shot in the morning of what had consumed YOU last night, you would be hangover-free. You reach for the liquor cabinet and prepare a few shots. Cheers, to yourself. Upon the first taste of alcohol you retch, then vomit. You stare at the remnants of last night’s dinner, scattered about your floor and begin to laugh. You laugh for a few minutes until you reach into the cabinet and kiss the bottle again. You wonder when the last time you have had contact with another female sober. Cheers. This is for you. This is for me. This is for us. This is for every other lonely, lovesick alcoholic bastard waking up to a floor full of vomit.
And it seemingly won’t get better.