I’m hung over again. Not good news.
The pull of the pub proved too strong for me and at 6pm I was in there. I had a lovely chat with the Doge about music, about life. We laughed, we shared, we enjoyed.
And, I came back and had a couple more drinks, with Mag. We laughed, we ended up dancing round the kitchen and singing. (I’m honestly not sure what totals to be writing in my drink diary, but it almost certainly equates to the equivalent of about six pints).I felt so alive, so free, so wonderful.
Still, the fact that I’m here and writing about it is good. Writing is good for me. It’s my natural way of communicating. Without alcohol I’m painfully – and, yes it is painful – shy, but at a keyboard it all seems to come so naturally, so honestly.
Today is the start of the fabled weekend that E and I both know I will struggle with.
When I drink there’s a lot of just sitting around and brooding. I notice the change is small emblematic things that signal my lack of life and energy. I’m more likely to have a bath than a shower. I get up later. I listen to news channels on the radio rather than music. I resent doing anything constructive or useful. I stare at job ads in a fug of useless self-loathing and fear.
So, there it is, the bad and the good.
At some point there are posts to come entitled “All my friends are alcoholics” (which is true up to a point) and “All my heroes are alcoholics” (which is also true up to a point). I do seem to have a particular connection with dark art and literature; pessimistic, dystopian and noir are my entertainments.
This is one of my favourite songs about drinking and one I completely identify with.
thin city blues 