93

Introductory Text

93rd Post

Posted 29 June 2016 at 02:06:31 EDT

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> Have you ever noticed that whenever you swallow your throat closes up for a moment and you can't breathe at all? Of course it always opens back up. The process is quite automatic, and you don't need to think about it. But what if you do think about it? What if by thinking about it, you somehow confuse everything, and your throat just stays closed? What if all that gummy flesh just sticks together and you suffocate to death?
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> This is how I think after a bender. I call it the "Scary Swallows." I swallow and my throat seems to "catch" for a moment, cutting off my windpipe, and panic blooms through my brain, threatening to take over everything. Then I manage to suck in a breath, and the panic subsides until the next swallow. So I try not to swallow at all, but then I'm thinking about it, obsessing over it, and my throat starts to twitch.
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> Shut up. Shut up. Irrelevant. Stupid. Do something. What do I do? Liquor. Look for liquor. My queasy stomach groans at the thought of it, but every other part of me shrieks with anticipation. Liquor will make everything else possible. Without it, the panic will rattle me apart. With it, I can do anything.
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> I scan the blood-smeared bathroom for bottles: nothing. Out in the bedroom, there is an empty half gallon of vodka and empty cans everywhere. Drunk to the last drop. Goddamn it. Nothing in here.
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> Where is the owner? I remember that I checked into the place without meeting him, using a door code. Have I met him since? No idea. That area of memory is corrupt. What will he think when he sees the broken lamp, the blood, my face? He'll kick me out for sure.
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> What if something even worse is waiting outside the bedroom door? What if I've killed him and his body is lying face down on the floor and my entire life is over? And I was so close -- so fucking close -- to getting out of the misery, of doing something, of accomplishing something, something mom and dad could be proud of, and now it's all over, all destroyed.
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> Calm yourself. Calmness. This is all imagination. Oh your fanciful imagination. What a delight it is. Just go out into the living room and look. Just go. Just go.
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> I crack the bedroom door and peek out. It's the ordinary living room and kitchen of a pretty nice apartment. I don't see anybody lying face down in a pool of blood. Nothing is broken.
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> Liquor. Now.I go to the kitchen. There's nothing on the counters. I open the refrigerator. Pleasepleaseplease. There is nothing. Oh, you teetotaling cunt. Did I get a room with the one sober motherfucker in this whole fucked-up drinkin'-ass city? I open the freezer. A frosty bottle lies on its side. I pull it out.
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> It is a fifth of Absolute. Full. Unopened. Emitting a ghostly cold mist like an angel. I stare at it in my shaking hands, tears coming to my eyes. I feel flowing through my entire existence the begrudging mercy of a disapproving god.
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> I scratch at the stupid, slippery plastic around the cap. My trembling hands are almost useless. I imagine myself having a seizure before I can get the bottle open, dying right here on the kitchen floor, like a man in a desert dying of thirst just feet away from an oasis. But finally I manage to tear the cracking plastic off.
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> The front door of the apartment swings open, letting in a blast of horrible sunlight. A figure stands at the door. I shove the bottle back into the freezer and slam it shut and turn my back to the person. I want to run and hide, to evaporate, but all I can do is just stand there. Fuck. Fuck.
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> "Oh, hey, man," a friendly voice says. "Nick, right?"
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> "Yeah. Good," I mumble. I am still standing with my back to the person. This is not valid human behavior. Fuck. Fuck. Why did he have to come home now? I force myself to turn around.
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> A youngish dude is standing in the doorway with bag slung over his shoulder. Apparently, the owner. "Hey... Are you alright?" he asks, the smile fading from his face.
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> "Yeah."
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> "What happened to you?"
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> "I don't know. Mountain biking."
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> Another invalid response from me. Now he's worried. He glances around the apartment, checking to see if his stuff is OK.
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> "I broke your lamp," I say preemptively. "I'm going to go. I'm sorry."
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> "What happened?" he asks, closing the front door.
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> "I got drunk and... Mountain biking," I mumble. I head to the bedroom, my heart pounding.
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> On second inspection, I notice that not only is the nightstand turned over and the lamp broken, but there are broken plates and a hole punched in the dry wall and beef jerky sticks strewn everywhere.
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> "Jesus, man. What did you do?" the guy asks as he follows me into the room.
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> "I don't know," I say, already on the verge of sobbing. Maybe I can just cry my way out of this. Nobody likes to see a grown man cry. I've got to get out of here. "I got drunk. Please just take the month's rent. I'll go," I say. This is a really stupid offer. I can't afford to give away a month's rent. But I don't know what else to do. I can't handle going to jail. It would kill me. My heart feels like it's trying to punch its way out of my chest. I need liquor. I just need liquor.
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> "Dude, hold on. How much stuff did you fuck up?" the guy asks.
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> "This is it," I say, not really knowing if I'm telling the truth or not. A bunch of my clothes are lying on the floor, and I gather them up and throw them into my suitcase and zip it up, only to realize that there are a lot more of my clothes obviously lying all over the place.
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> "Well, we need to figure out the damages."
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> "I can't, OK? I've got to go," I say in a quavering, childish voice. "Just take the month's rent."
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> The guy starts inspecting the room as I pack my clothes. The awkwardness of it makes me want to claw my eyes out. My suitcase won't close. The clothes won't fit unless they are perfectly folded. God, I want to cry. I am almost crying. Good. Good. It's like a squid blasting out a jet of ink. It will allow me to escape. I throw my least favorite shirts onto the floor and zip the suitcase up.
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> When I stand up, me and the guy have this moment where we're looking at each other eye to eye. "Dude," he says, "You're all fucked up."
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> "I'm taking the vodka," I announce.
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