Tonights episode of "Boomtown" was about a drunk driver hit-and-run. There were all these scenes involving people who were alcoholics. I felt that terrible pull in my chest again while watching some of these scenes. As I understand it, alcoholics are never cured, but rather they go through a process wherein each day is taken sober - one after another forever. I felt that heart tug of inevitablility watching these characters face their challenges, because I feel it too.
You want another drink. Just one more. Just let me sip it. How about just a sniff. Ok, let me hold the bottle. No? Then tell me a story about it. Still no? Screw you, I'll just dream about it. And if I can't sleep because my whole existance is keening for any fucking connection at all, maybe I'll start a website and try to bleed myself of the disease.
But it doesn't work. That's the thing. Your feeling of emptiness comes from a hole in you. A hole you try to fill. You can fill it with lovely flowing drowning alcohol, or the shit you buy and never use and call your stuff, or money money how much do I have, or golden-god bioflex trimmed abs athletics in urea stenched basements, or sweaty grunting moaning desparate fucks clutching meat mirrors of yourself, or doppelganger mothering self-pity, or maybe just plain love. You must fill it.
Are you addicted? Do you need that hole filled to draw breath? When your blankey got taken away, wasn't it the end of the earth? Your best friend betraying you was nearly your end. When you first saw that your father was not invulnerable, didn't you feel cheated? Speaking of cheated, when your other cheated on you, how did you survive? When your parent died, or left, how did you go on? Where is that first love of yours? The one you couldn't live without? The thing that gave you reason for living? That part of your heart that you felt more than your own pulse?
It's gone. She's gone. He's gone. It's over. You did something wrong. You did nothing wrong. It doesn't matter either way. You feel the loss and it sucks - the hole, I mean. It sucks and sucks like a baby for a dripping tit just out of reach. Give it back! Put it back! Give me! I am dying.
you want your whiskey, double on the rocks.
you want finer muscle tone, to fit your bill.
you want to go pray to your god.
you want your lover.
you want
you want what fills the hole.
Posted by Matt at April 13, 2003 11:22 PM