GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1013: MY CALENDAR IS STILL PACKED AWAY

 

Yesterday I found my motivational bottle of whiskey. There's maybe a quarter-inch of booze in there, and I'm guaranteed not to drink it because the original cork broke, and there are hundreds of pieces floating in the bottle. But I do like to take a sniff from the neck every once in a while. Sometimes it smells glorious, but most times it grosses me out, the desired effect.

It's been three years and a handful of days since my last drink. I don't know how many days because my calendar is still packed away. However, I made an ugly discovery this morning while refilling my bottle of liquid Vicodin from the cannister CVS gave me. I usually get a little red flask of the stuff, but for some reason I got the cannister this time. I read the label and found, much to my horror, that there is alcohol in this.

So technically I haven't had a drink since the last time I took my medicine.

I'm supposed to take 15 mL every four hours. That is the equivalent of a sip of decent beer at 6.7% ABV.

After some agonizing I decided that it doesn't count against my years and days. #1: I had no idea that there was alcohol in this. #2: It's not like I'm drinking this stuff to get wasted. Sure, the pain gets to be a bit much sometimes, so I'll take 30 mL, but it's not recreational. I'm using this as directed, as a painkiller.

Yes, I can hear myself. I used to drink to kill the pain of a terrible constant months-long headache, and that was how I became an alcoholic.

It gets worse. The temptation to drink in this new home is exceptionally strong. I've almost gotten myself convinced that I can just have a couple of drinks to unwind each night. Right now I have edibles to unwind. My new home is a nonsmoking place. You can't even smoke on the property. So I've stopped smoking weed, but the edibles aren't kicking in like they used to.

Yes, I can still hear myself. I'm looking for an excuse to get fucked up. I'm writing this to convince myself to *not* do that.

Because the rest of me is very much onboard with getting fucked up, but as I write this I can feel myself coming to my senses. Yet: "Hey, man, you don't have *any* days because you fucked up. You took the liquid Vicodin. So give up. Go get some bourbon. There's a place just down the street. It's a college town! There's a place just down *every* street! Let's go, dude!"

The other day I stopped in a Casey's to use the bathroom, and I had to crutch (I'm on a walker, not a crutch, but "walker" my way doesn't sound right) my way past the liquor section. I scowled at Evan Williams, but Larceny? Whoo-boy. I loved Larceny. If I wasn't in dire straits of a piss, I would have stopped and considered. Considering might have lead to something else.

The one thing that stops me flat is the cage on my leg. I can't tell you how many times I've almost fallen over on the walker dead sober. I have stopped myself from eating it each and every time. But if I was drunk . . .

It doesn't matter. The cage is coming off tomorrow. I won't have that to stop me soon. But I will still be in a cast. Maybe that will help.

Speaking of which, I've been advised that it's possible the cage *won't* come off tomorrow. My surgeon asked me to get a CT scan today (last minute) because she's afraid two of my bones haven't fused together. If they haven't, she said she won't take the cage off.

THE CAGE MUST COME OFF. I'm at the very end of my wits on this. I can't have this cage on me anymore. The longer it's on, the higher the risk of a bone infection and a subsequent amputation. But that's not what's eating me. I NEED TO WALK AGAIN. I can't keep crutching around on walkers and actual crutches (I use one for stairs). No matter how much of my liquid Vicodin I take, I'm still in pain, especially when I'm on stairs. I can't take it anymore. I literally can't.

Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, and the surgeon will tell me that the CT scan showed the bones didn't fuse, so the cage isn't coming off. Or I'll go under, and when I wake up the cage will still be there. The cast is supposed to be a walking cast, so I've decided that if I can't walk around tomorrow on my feet, sans cage, I am going to get a bottle of Wild Turkey 101, and I'm going to drink myself into oblivion.

I know that sounds crazy, but have you ever spent approximately three months with a cage around one of your feet? One that keeps several metal rods going through your flesh and bone in place? So that you're in constant pain that whole time?

We're going to find out about a lot of things tomorrow. Things have been going my way lately. I can only assume this will go my way, too. So here's to hoping I walk out of the hospital on two feet tomorrow, and that I'm carrying my folded up walker under one arm. Wish me luck.

I really hope the cage comes off for many, many reasons, but one of the big ones for me is, I'll finally be able to change my boxers. I've been wearing the same pair since the cage was installed. The ones I'm wearing are pretty rank by this point. I spray them with air freshener every day. But hey! No pee stains or skidmarks! 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #978: 2 YEARS AND 262 DAYS

 It has been two years and 262 days since my last drink. Recently I almost fucked my streak, so maybe moving into the hotel isn't changing me. Maybe the Becoming had already taken me over by that point.

Because a week before I left home for the last time, I decided when I woke up that I was going to drink that day. I was going to visit Gramps and Grandma (and my great-grandma, but I never met her in life, so I don't know her all that well) on that Thursday. Longtime readers know I take an airplane bottle of Jim Beam for Gramps, as that was his favorite drink. When I was still boozing it up, I brought an airplane bottle for me, too.

Except this time I was so frazzled by my entire life being upended that I thought, why not get one for myself this time? The idea blossomed from there when I realized that if I had that drink, I might as well get drunk, so I'd better get a fifth of Wild Turkey 101 for good measure. I smiled, knowing that I would finally find peace again.

I got out of bed, and I almost hummed thinking about the booze I was going to get that day. I'd been going insane getting my things ready for Public Storage, at least the stuff I couldn't bring with me to the hotel. And then I opened the shutters in my room, surprised to see that it had snowed overnight.

Fuck. I can't visit Gramps and Grandma in the snow. So much for that idea.

The only reason I didn't drink that day was because it snowed. Only then did I realize what I'd decided to do, and about then I knew that I had to recognize the fact that I was going crazy, or something like that could very well happen again. I had to be wary. The addiction often speaks sensibly, which makes it easy for you to say fuck it. Let's get hammered.

I fought it off that day, but booze constantly assails me at the hotel. Do you think I like going downstairs and outside to smoke some weed? Do you know what would be easier? Get a bottle, fill a glass and relax. No journeys or hassles needed. And what the hell? I got my usual sickness without the booze, anyway. It's not like it's going to make me ill like that again.

I know that if I spend enough time in this hotel room, I'm going to drink again. I'm a little surprised I haven't yet. Whenever I stayed in a hotel room in the past, it was because I intended to be so drunk I couldn't drive home. I feel like I should have a drink within arms' reach at all times. That's what worked for me in the past.

The plan is to be here a month (and to enjoy my short commute to work while I have the chance). I think I can hold out that long. But if I'm here longer, that could become a problem. But I do have a couple of prospects right now. I just need one of them to work out, and I'll be certain that I won't drink.

Reasonably certain. I am, after all, still an addict.

Wish me luck.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #960: 2 YEARS, 195 DAYS

 It has been 2 years and 195 days since my last drink. A few people have started to notice that I don't say "I've been sober for . . ." That is by design. I'm an alcoholic, not a weedoholic. I have problems with booze, not cannabis.

But this "sober" thing came up, I don't know, maybe a year ago? I forget what the association of ideas was that led me to this particular thought, as I promptly forgot the thought almost as soon as I had it. But last night, as I waited for sleep to take me, my brain spoke up and reminded me of it for some odd reason. Possibly to plague me. My brain is very good at plaguing and vexing me. Thankfully it's good at positive stuff, too.

I realized that I've never had a sexual encounter as an adult while sober. Every instance has been while I was blind stinking drunk. I've had a few sober sexual experiences from when I was underage, but that can't possibly count. I don't recall who said it, but every time you remember something, you're actually remembering the last time you remembered that thing, not the thing itself. As such, it turns into a game of inner telephone. I think there might be some truth to it. I imagine sober sex would be vastly different between the 13 year old boy I was and the 46 year old man I am now.

The last time I had sex was late 2020. I like to think it was in December, but it was probably in October, possibly earlier than that. I was pretty drunk. The last sexual encounter wasn't long after that. It's pretty pathetic, actually. We were in the shower together, cleaning each other before getting dirty again, but I was drunk and 70 lbs. heavier than I am now. My chest felt weird, and I felt like I was out of breath. She helped me sit on the closed toilet seat so I could catch my breath. By the time I felt normal again, the mood had passed.

My sex drive had been dropping, anyway. It was at its lowest just before I went to detox in July 2022. Since quitting the booze it's picked up again, but, and here the author of Dong of Frankenstein and 6669: Demon Porn must make a confession, sex has never been something I've been very interested in. I don't pursue it. Sometimes it pursues me, and I give in to it. It feels great and then makes me insatiably crave it for about two weeks before I'm back to normal. I'm sure there's a werewolf metaphor in there somewhere.

But now I wonder, what must it be like? To have sex with someone without any foreign chemicals in my body? I'm childish at nature, so would I be able to take it seriously? I've never been good at talking dirty, so I'm almost certain I'd take it too far. And I'm lazy and like to be ridden. Probably not popular idea.

As a young boy I had encounters with two young girls and I had sex with another. I was still, legally, 13 at the time, but I was just about to turn 14. The experience was very enjoyable but also traumatic for a while afterward. I caught the clap. That was enough to make me swear off of sex for a long time afterward. I didn't come back to it until years later. Every once in a while I would develop an attraction for someone, but I'd shove it down until I didn't feel it anymore. I didn't want to risk possibly finding myself in a position to have sex again.

I'm sure I'll find out some day about the sober sex. Unless I die in my sleep tonight.

Laugh if you will, but how creepy would it be if I did? It's not urban legend material, but I'm sure I'd make a Buzzfeed list somewhere.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #951: 2025 DOES NOT BODE WELL

 For the past few days I've been getting ready to take this mantle up again, and I thought I'd jump right into politics before January 20 comes along, but fuck that. Because big picture? That's terrible for everyone, even the unsuspecting MAGAs. Besides, small picture (but fucking huge for me) is what I'm looking at this year.

I can't imagine I'll end 2025 with two feet. Gotta be honest, today I had a bad feeling about The Foot. A lot of drainage came out of it today, and it is super swollen. I could not get my shoe on this morning. I had to go back to the medical shoe with the velcro strips. Often times today I thought maybe I should just go to the ER. But if these are going to be my last days with the foot, I want to get the most out of them. I also want to start planning to fuck over the corporations who are going to swarm me when I no longer have money because my second prediction for the year is I'll be out of a job. First and foremost is jailbreaking my car so the dealer can't brick it from afar. The plan is to also . . . I'm a little crazy right now, so I'll hold off on that.

(I did message my podiatrist. He asked me if there was any redness, and there isn't. He doesn't seem worried, but now I'm thinking about how cold I was on Friday. That is also a sign of infection.)

There are a few things that are probably going to come up this year on my Reasons to Start Drinking Again list, but those two are the big ones. So to top it all off I'm probably going to drink again this year. My life has been a constant downward spiral, but I may be reaching the end. It angers me that I won't get to beat Mom's high score of 53, much less Dad's 59.

I hope this is just the paranoia speaking, but last night I thought about all the things I wanted to do with the new year, about all the life changes I would incrementally make over time. I have a little notebook half-filled with my ideas and how to implement them. But whenever I start making big plans for myself, the universe shoves the Fickle Dick of Fate right up my ass. It's been probing me all day, but I hope it doesn't make me drink during the first full week of the year.

I thought maybe I should go to the ER anyway tonight, but I have a plan of action. I see Wound Care on Thursday, but I have some antibiotics (they accidentally gave me two packs, and I'm not going to just return one) in case I have an infection, and I have tons of ice to kill the swelling. It went down a little today, but maybe by my appointment, I'll have fixed this. Or they'll highly suggest I go to the ER, so I might want to pay a bag on Thursday . . .

The really fucked up part of this is, I started looking forward to losing my foot so I could drink again. That, my fine fuckers, is the very definition of addiction. I killed that horrible thought as soon as I detected it, but I can't deny it was there.

I'm hoping tomorrow's better. And hey, this was mighty depressing. You should check out the new issue of The Cocaine! Bros.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #925: THE HORRORS PERSIST

 Printers Row: Please don't make me get sick before I go. Authorcon IV: Please don't make me get sick before I go (or even while I'm there). Last Wednesday: Shit, I think I picked up a cold from the con. Friday: OH FUCK IT'S MY SICKNESS NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

After about seven hours of puking my guts out every 15 minutes and constant pain, I decided to admit defeat and finally go to the ER, where they went through the usual rounds. They haven't hospitalized me for this illness for a while, so I didn't expect them to keep me overnight. But after they sent me for a CT scan (the first of two) the ER doc came back and said, rather cheerfully, "Your scan looks great! Except you tore a hole in your esophagus from puking too hard!"

Well shit. Thanks for that. They thought air was getting through the hole, but no water. They decided to admit me. No food. No water. I can't even let water get close to my mouth. I was hungry, and my tongue scratched like sandpaper across the roof of my mouth. My throat ached, begging for anything. I'd have taken a hot load from John Holmes himself if that was all that was available. My only comfort was morphine, and they were not stingy with it.

(They took mercy on me and got me a cup of water with a sponge to swab my mouth. I couldn't drink it, though.)

But as they were asking the usual questions, and the nurses were fretting about me as they always do, they asked about my leg brace. I then found myself explaining that I have a hole in my foot from stepping on broken glass a couple of months ago. I got it all out, and my podiatrist x-rayed me to confirm that. But now they were worried about it again. They sent me for an MRI, and wouldn't you know it? There wasn't any broken glass, but there *was* a lot wrong with my foot. They didn't scan the heel or ankle, so I still have to do that to learn the final verdict, but they told me about how I've been walking on bone shards for who knows how long? Also, one of my toes died. The bone near the base is just about detached, and I know when that happened. I started working out again, but while doing leg exercises, I heard a pop in that foot. I can't feel anything there, so I took it very seriously and quit working my legs. Now it would seem that lifting weights is also out. I must keep as much pressure off my foot as possible for the rest of my life. I shouldn't even be walking on it, apparently.

The hole itself is doing all right, though. Not great, but not as bad as the rest of my foot. My podiatrist made it sound like I might be losing my foot this week. He's already taken two of my toes (on my other foot, so if I lose the bad one I'll be down to three toes). I know he's hungry for the rest of them. (I wrote a story about the first amputation. I have yet to collect "Welcome to Middle-Age NOW GIVE ME YOUR TOE!", but you can read it here if you wish.)

He had a vacation coming up, so he left me in the hands of his colleague. She looked at the MRI and then at my bad foot and determined that nothing could be determined at this time. But she said it looked stable, and that the other MRI would be needed, but this isn't an emergency situation. It will be somewhere down the line (hopefully three days after the time of my death; wish in one hand . . .), but for now she saw no reason to keep me for the foot. That made me optimistic for the first time in this whole ordeal.

This morning they had me swallow a bunch of barium and took x-rays of it moving through my body. There is no air leak anymore, thank fuck, but I can't have anything solid to eat until next Monday. Clear liquids only in all that time. That sucks, as I am still very hungry, but that first clear liquid "meal" was fucking great. Drinking water again felt great, and I've been instructed to drink a lot of it so the barium doesn't come back and haunt me.

They let me go earlier tonight with a list of doctors to set up appointments with and all of my meds changed from pills to liquids. Shockingly enough I've been given LIQUID FUCKING OPIOIDS. That is what I'll be taking shortly.

The cause of the illness was alcohol. After ignoring medical advice for a decade, I finally quit drinking. I went a year without suffering from this sickness, but it started again in January this year. The docs think it's something called cannabis hyperemesis syndrome. Cannabis builds up in your body and must be purged or I'll get sick. It's a little convenient that they're trying to take another drug away from me, but I've been assured I don't have to quit. I just can't ingest weed in any form, flower, edible or even the excellent infused ginger ale I had with me in St. Louis, every day. They've recommended once a week.

For a while there I was pretty sure that my streak was about to end. It's been two years and ninety-two days since my last drink. That was probably my best streak ever, even when I was on the Sobriety Clock during the Tabard Inn days. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm certain I'll drink again. My job is to make sure that day gets put so far off into the future that I might die before it comes. In the hospital I knew that whatever they advised about my foot, I'd ignore it for as long as I possibly could. Then, the day before the amputation, I'd load up on a month's work of whiskey for when I got home after. I'm sure my tolerance has gone remarkably down, and my liver and pancreas are probably in the best shape of my life since I was in college.

We'll have to see how everything goes. For the record, when this year started out I weighed 265. Not my heaviest. That was 306 (and I still managed to get lucky, so not altogether bad). The lowest I've weighed as an adult was in college at 205. My weight is now at 206.

For now I've suffered enough. I'm going to try out this opioid because despite what I told the docs before I left tonight, I still *do* have pain. I lied because I wanted to get the hell out of there. On the pain scale, I'd say I'm at a seven right now. Technically you need to be eight before they give you opioids. All the same, it will be great to get a good night's sleep tonight. This has gone on long enough, so I won't repeat myself on the horrors of trying to sleep in a hospital. For now, goodnight ye kind fuckers, ye.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #871: 2 YEARS AND 1 DAY

My first author photo. Of course I'm drinking.

 The leap year threw off my two-year anniversary of not drinking, so this is the actual date of the day I went to detox two years ago. Yeah, I know, my birthday is still on the same date even though I lived through X amount of leap years. I was also inside my mom for nine months, and you know what many people in this country believe about when life begins. Unless it fucks with doing taxes, so capitalism does, indeed, trump religion here.

But even if you don't want to count yesterday, you have to admit I made it to two years today. So that's the end of that discussion.

When I first showed up at detox I thought I was going into withdrawals, but it turned out I was still drunk from the night before. That makes me wonder how many times, over the years, I've gone to my various jobs still drunk, just not knowing it. Good thing no one thought to test me.

I was dismayed to learn that I would have a roommate, at least for the first half of my stay, but it turned out that he was a pretty good guy. I fell out of touch with him. I hope he's doing OK. I know when we did IOP together he fell off the wagon a couple of times. He was kind to me when I had no idea how he was keeping himself together. He'd only arrived 30 minutes before me.

I wasn't a great fan of communal living. What I really wanted was time alone, but that was pretty hard to come by. I don't recall how many people lived in that space. Maybe fifteen? When I first arrived the plan was to stay for three months, and I didn't really want to do that, not with so many people always being around. I don't mind saying I was hurting pretty bad. Not just the withdrawal. There was that, but there was also Ativan to keep me from seizing up. I mean the swift change in my life. I was living with just my brother (Grandma had just passed, what, a couple of weeks before?), and all of a sudden I found myself in the midst of this crowd? Changing one of the most powerful parts of my life? I didn't feel confused or even weird. I felt fucked up. Just fucked up. I hadn't even thought about the food they'd serve. I'm pretty particular about what I eat, and I knew they'd be serving shit I wouldn't like.

I will say this. Being in detox was a lot better than the psych ward. The only thing the psych ward had up on detox was the food. Psych ward food wasn't great, but it was good. Detox food was downright awful. At the very least I didn't have to ask permission to go to the bathroom. That was nice.

The only comfort I found was in writing. It would turn out to be a story I started while still in the throes of booze but finished on the other side of detox. If you want to read it, it was published in The Rainforest Strikes Back. I also found solace in Julian by Gore Vidal. When I was waiting for the driver to pick me up I had the wherewithal to grab the nearest Vidal book I had. If I have to go to institutions every once in a while, it might be a good idea to bring Vidal with me.

The only other thing I enjoyed while I was there was the environment outside. Yeah, it was hot as fuck, but it was beautiful out there. We were supposed to walk back from the cafeteria to our living quarters together, but I regularly fell behind so I could admire the beauty of the land around me. One of the therapists saw me, and I explained what I was doing.

"You're the only one I've ever seen who does that," she said.

To be fair, the people I was staying with had their minds occupied elsewhere. Everyone was there to dedicate themselves to being sober. Not me. I was there to put drinking behind me. Except . . .

I don't think I've told this part before. I may have mentioned it to a couple of friends, but I don't think I did.

This was near the end of my time in detox. I'd beaten the physical addiction. But I wanted a drink badly. Maybe even needed a drink. So I decided I was going to get the hell out of there specifically to drink the instant I got home. Not putting it off until my birthday, like I told everyone.

I worked as diligently as I possibly could. I canceled the three months, explaining that I felt pretty good now, pretty confident. I wasn't. Those were flat-out lies. After signing a mega-shit-ton of paperwork they finally packed up my things (the stuff they didn't allow me to have) and got someone to drive me back home. This driver went a different way, a longer way, which irritated me to no end. I could practically taste the bourbon I was going to get as a gift to myself. Congratulations! You made it through detox!

Dammit, why is he taking the scenic route? I need to get home so I can get in my car, go to Williams Liquors and get a bottle for myself. And I wasn't going to cheap out on myself, either. I was gonna get me some Wild Turkey 101. Maybe a handle!

I finally got home and dragged my shit inside. My brother, who expected to be living alone for three months, was surprised to see me. I got up to my room and knew I had to take a shower first. Detox showers suck. They're better than psych ward showers, but not by much. I needed to take my first shower as a free man IMMEDIATELY.

Then I got dressed and grabbed my car keys. Out to the car. I was hungry for anything that wasn't detox food, so I stopped at McDonald's, a couple of blocks from my actual destination. And then, as I approached Williams Liquors, I . . . just drove past. I still have no idea why I did that, but the urge to drink was suddenly gone.

Don't get me wrong. I miss booze. A lot. But the urge to drink only happens every once in a while, and it's easy to fight.

So. How did I make it to two years? When so many alcoholics fail within the first week? And not being in AA? There are very few people in the world who think that an alcoholic can get away from the drink without AA. Everyone I was in IOP with was in AA, or at the very least they attended meetings. The therapist in charge of IOP is one of the few people who understood me when I said I only have a problem with booze. I'm OK with other drugs. And then even she said that it's a difficult row to hoe without AA.

But I can't stand AA. I know it helps others, and that's a good thing. But it is NOT FOR ME. I'm fine with Step One. Every alcoholic really does need to start there with admitting that you have a problem. I did that on Facebook, called friends and told them about it, had in person conversations, you name it. The one thing I most definitely did not do is proceed to Step Two, which is the problem for me.

If you're an alcoholic reading this, AA is probably a good idea, especially if you're not an atheist like me. It's a good place to start, and who knows? If you don't have a god, you might find one there. The first AA meeting I went to where I actually talked to people, they wanted me to take that second step. If you don't know, you have to acknowledge a greater power than you and that you have to place your trust in that power, that the power will get you to stop drinking. All you have to do is ask. All of them, each and every one of them, says it doesn't even have to be a god. It could be a doorknob. It could be a paperweight. And because a friend of mine had dragged me into the meeting, one of them said that I could even choose her as my higher power.

Incidentally, I told her about that on the drive home. Even she, an addict herself, said that was a bad idea.

I'm not such a staggeringly big asshole in that I don't believe there is a greater power than me. There are plenty of greater powers. My go-to example is the ocean. The ocean is a greater power than me. Unfortunately it has nothing to do with my drinking, so fuck the ocean. It's not going to help me. None of the greater powers is even sentient, so how could it know anything? Much less a method of getting me to stop drinking?

I am, however, kind of an asshole, so I suggested that I use myself as the greater power. Everyone said that was a bad idea. Really? Everyone?

If the ocean isn't going to give a shit about me drinking, and I'm not going to pray to a god about it, then the ONLY thing to do is put it all on me. And it's not really that hard. All you have to do is keep telling yourself NO. And you know how I feel about that word.

So I don't know how I do it. Probably not willpower alone. There *is* a reason I had to go to detox, after all. But here's what I think.

Even though I didn't drink on that very first day out of detox, I made a promise to myself. One day I absolutely will drink again. It will happen. Because I came up with a list of things that could get me to drink again. Some of them happened, and I didn't start drinking. A lot of these are not very likely to even happen, but I'm sure eventually one of them will knock me off the wagon.

The key is to make sure that day is as far as possible into the future. And if I die before that day comes? I win.

If you're an alcoholic looking for help, don't listen to me, even if you're an atheist, too. What I'm doing is very unusual and off the beaten path. It seems to be working for me, but addiction is fucking crazy. There seems to be very few hard and fast rules in overcoming such an addiction. AA isn't the worst place you could start. Hell, you might even get something out of it. A lot of alcoholics do. Just in case, here's the link to their website.

As one friend on Facebook said, while congratulating me on two years free from booze, good work. Now I gotta do it again.

HEY, FUCKERS #28: 1 YEAR AND 364 DAYS

 WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT? What the fuck is this? Hey, Fuckers? Number 28?!?!?!?!?! Yeah, I haven't written a Hey, Fuckers column in almost ten years. But I wanted to commemorate something, and I didn't want to use Goodnight, Fuckers for it. Rather, I'll have a similar GF on Monday celebrating something related to what I want to talk about right now.

Most alcoholics celebrate the anniversary of  quitting the booze. I'll be doing that tomorrow, and then I'll tell you all about it Monday night. But Hey, Fuckers was a column for when I wanted to discuss things right off the top of my head instead of waiting for it to be the last thing I do before bedtime. And there is something I want to celebrate today.

Two years ago *this* day I drank for the last time. This time two years ago I was hammered out of my mind. I'd spent the night previous talking to this guy named Sonny, possibly the most Italian man I've ever met, and I'm Italian, myself. Whenever I was in the hospital for booze related illnesses, they'd send him in to try to convince me to clean myself up. He'd sit down and talk at me for at least a half an hour each time, and he was somehow more profane than I am. But I talked to him that night. I talked to a few others. The conversation I had with my buddy, Zeb Carter, is the one that tipped me over, helped me decide that yes, I'm going to call Sonny and have him help me quit the sauce. (Incidentally, Sonny looks eerily like Mad Sam DeStefano.)

This time two years ago I knew the following day I was going into detox, but I had all this booze still in my bedroom, including the dozen or so hiding places I had for back up bottles. (I didn't find them all. Not too long ago I found the rest of them, including a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 that still has an inch of bourbon left in it, which I have not thrown out. I keep it as a reminder.)

I hate it when things go to waste, so I decided I'd better drink up everything I had. Later, when I was in detox, I decided I was going to drink when I got out. I thought it would be a good idea to continue to drink, just not nearly as much as I used to. I'm super glad I didn't feel the urge to actually follow through on that. Now that my head's on straight, I know that I would have tried that, but I would have failed spectacularly. I'd be back to guzzling directly from a handle of cheap shit in no time.

[Here's an aside. I went back and forth on posting this link because contrary to popular belief I sometimes *am* embarrassed by myself. But if you really want to know how bad I was, you should read this. I am absolutely mortified by my behavior in that post. I do not remember driving that day. I *do* remember the sunlight coming through the open curtains destroying me, and I remember picking up that handle of Fleischmann's so I could continue drinking that morning. And then I blacked out again almost immediately because I don't remember anything else for the rest of the day except the moment at the strip mall where I can back to myself before the booze took over again. I don't remember anything else until I woke up the following day. I cannot stress this enough: I SHOULD NOT HAVE DRIVEN THAT DAY. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I've driven drunk when I shouldn't have.  But I know this story is 100% true, because others have told me about my black outs, and they stress me shouting everything and calling people YOU FOOL! So yeah, if you think I made a mistake by quitting the booze, then read that post and realize that I was like that OFTEN.]

I figured I'd throw myself a little party. I had about two inches of cheap Canadian shit in a handle, so I drank that. I forget what it was called, but you could get a handle of it for six bucks at Corner Cottage. I also had some Fleischmann's, maybe half a handle, so I drank that. I had a sleeve of Jim Beam airplane bottles, so I drank that. And I still was not drunk enough for this to be my final hurrah. (Yeah, I was a fucking heavy drinker if you weren't around for that period of my life. I was like Julian on Trailer Park Boys, always with a drink in one hand. The problem is, unlike Julian, I didn't pace myself, so I was always rip-roaring Jim Lahey drunk.

Back then I aged my own whiskey, so I had a small barrel on the kitchen counter filled to the brim with high proof whiskey. So I drank that, too. I don't remember finishing it, but I did because the next morning I went looking for hair of the dog and found none.

The guy Sonny sent to pick me up got me and drove me out to Carol Stream. Along the way he told me it was nice not driving someone who was shitfaced to detox because he, too, was an alcoholic. In that moment I realized my foolishness. I should have saved some for the ride over. What was I thinking?!?!?!?!?!?!

But that all happened two years ago *tomorrow* so we'll skip that. This time in 2022? I had the blowout boozer to end all boozers, at least for me. And I really enjoyed myself, from what I remember.

To quote a great man, "OK for now." To be continued in Monday night's GF.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #849: ONE YEAR AND 321 DAYS

 It has been a year and 321 days since my last drink. Looks like I might actually make two years!

But drinking is a bit of a phantom limb for me, and as I've lost two toes, I'm more familiar with the concept than most. I think the pain comes from my toe stumps remembering what it was like to be separated from their toes, not that I have ghost toes that are in pain.

I miss drinking a lot. Well, I miss, a lot, the act of drinking, and I miss the act of drinking a lot. I have no drive to drink. I don't sweat when I think about it. I'm long past the physical addiction. I'm pretty sure I'm never going to drink again, but defeating the urge is an every day thing. Whenever a character in a movie or on a show I'm watching takes a drink, I wish I could, too. When I'm doing something that I used to drink while doing? Oh yeah. Like when I was packing up my things before I went to detox. Now I realize that the boxes are too big and too heavy. I knew a moving company would be able to figure it out, but that might not be happening, so I find myself in this situation where I'm repacking everything into smaller boxes for portability by someone who doesn't move boxes for a living. I've been doing this every day off I've had for a couple of weeks, and I really, really miss being able to drink while I worked.

I also used to edit my books while drinking. Drinking and writing did not mix for me, but drinking and editing worked out pretty well. Eye Cutter is the first full length book I've edited without booze. It felt weird this time around, but I don't think there was much of a difference.

Before I went to detox I looked at alcoholics who had gone decades without a drink, and I'd think, OK. You got it figured out. You're probably not an alcoholic anymore. Now that I have a better understanding, it's kind of crazy to think if I had that much time under my belt, that I'd still be thinking about doing shots. Or sipping scotch with a cigar. Or even having some beer while doing work around the house.

Weird, but seemingly true.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #795: ONE YEAR AND ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-THREE DAYS

 It's been one year and one hundred and ninety-three days since my last drink. You know me. In that time I have consumed a lot of books and movies and TV shows and such, and while I noticed this before, kinda-sorta, I didn't really recognize it for what it was until recently.

Fiction, no matter the medium, is full of people struggling against themselves, but I want to look at recovering alcoholics in particular. I've found myself watching characters relapse and feeling the anguish they should be feeling.

But it didn't really come home to me until I watched the episode of Succession where, after a heated battle with his father, Kendall goes to a bar and orders a drink. He hems and haws a little before drinking it, and the whole time I was thinking, don't do it, man. It's not worth it. Kendall's kind of a dick, so to have me saying something like that means something.

No matter who it is, I always feel bad when someone struggling with their own addiction succumbs to it. It's kind of weird for me because I don't really struggle with my alcoholism. Every alcoholic I've ever known struggles every day. I don't. I could walk into a liquor store and walk back out without buying anything. I could go to a party or a bar and not consume anything with alcohol in it. It's easy. Sure, some days I think about booze more than I should, but I can promise you that if you put a glass of Wild Turkey 101 on the rocks in front of me, I wouldn't drink it. I think I'd be terrified to drink it.

I've said it before, there are certain things that, if they happened, I would go get drunk. But those things are so bad that getting drunk wouldn't matter. For example, if I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, boozing it up won't matter.

But I don't like saying this is easy because it's almost never easy for anyone. I don't want to be the guy someone listens to and they go, hey, he says it's easy. It probably is. I'm not going to put too much effort into this. I don't want to be the reason someone else didn't take this kind of thing seriously enough.

When I was still doing my meetings, the subject of at-least-you're-here-now came up. The idea is, you're trying to kick the habit, but you fail, and then you come back to the meeting the next day. Which is good, I'm not knocking that. Just because you fuck up one day doesn't mean you fucked up the whole thing. But in that meeting in particular, one of my fellow addicts said that was the last thing he wanted to hear if he ever relapsed. Because he didn't want people to take it easy on him. He wanted someone to shame him so that he'd feel guilt the next time he might find himself on the precipice. Which I totally understand. I think I'd want someone to shame me, too. But more importantly, what if that drink is the one that ends his life? What if, after he takes that first drink, he keeps going and going? Because I'm pretty sure if I took another drink, I wouldn't be able to stop, and that would bring me to my demise.

All right, I've got one more day to get my shit together, and then it's time for surgery again. I stupidly said I'd see everyone next week in Good Morning, Fuckers!, which is not going to happen. Probably. I'll be forbidden to type anything out, so maybe I'll do a mini edition on Sunday, but I'll have everything typed up already so all I have to do is hit send. One way or the other, this is the last GF column until I get cleared by the doc. Be good to each other.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #788: ONE YEAR AND 179 DAYS

 It's been one year and 179 days since my last drink. Booze has been on my mind lately. Not just because I had an exceptionally shitty day today. Believe it or not, work was the highlight of my day, and work was fucking miserable. Especially since it's starting to look like I might not get that change in position. They might not need an additional hand over there, after all.

But I also found a jar of apple moonshine last week. I was pretty sure that I'd gotten to all my booze stashes, but I guess one got past me. I couldn't even open the jar because my hands are all fucked up. Not that I wanted to drink the contents. It looked kind of gross.

But I wanted to clean it out and maybe use the jar for something else. Jars are always good to have. I used to be the guy everyone went to for stuff like opening tight jars. Now I have to ask my brother to do it. Getting old sucks. Needing surgery on your hands sucks, too.

But I was mostly thinking about how, back when I was a full-blown boozer, I never got bug bites except for one time. That one time was because I was sleeping in a room that had a lot of bugs in a tank. One got out and bit my belly. But aside from that one time? Never. I never got so much as a mosquito bite.

I remember a time when I went camping with a bunch of friends, and the mosquito problem was so bad they asked the campground to move us to another site. They were all riddled with bites, but not me. The argument could be made that I was drunk out of my mind, so of course I wouldn't have noticed. But I checked the next day. Nothing.

Everyone else was drinking. Why were they not spared? Because I was the only one who showed up drunk already. I had to take a few drinks to make the long drive bearable. Was that the camping trip when I decided I was the Lord of the Flies? Maybe that was it.

At any rate, since I quit drinking I've been getting bug bites. Mosquitos no longer fear alcohol poisoning from feeding off of me, for example. I got a couple of ant bites during the summer. Etc.

It's weird to think about the problems that come with suddenly not having a blood alcohol content at all times. I miss it. Not the Fleischmann's or the Ten High or even that godawful Canadian shit I got for seven bucks a handle. I miss things like the Glenfiddich. Wild Turkey 101. Booker's. I never did get a taste of the Pappy, and I'd always held out hopes that I would. If someone offered me a glass of that, I don't think I'd be able to say no.

Somehow I have yet to have a relapse. Not sure how that happened. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: when I was at detox, I was already planning to drink more when I got out. Weird. Maybe the key to quitting booze, after you go through the physical addiction, is knowing deep within yourself that you're going to drink again. I know I am. It's just a matter of how long. My job is to make sure there are as many days between now and that time as possible.

If I'm ever diagnosed with an incurable disease, for example. Or if I need my foot amputated. Or if I get fired. Or, I guess, if someone offered me a taste of Pappy Van Winkle.

544 days. So far, so good.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #770: TOY CRIME STORY WRAP UP

 OK, after all that time, Toy Crime Story is over. I just posted the finale earlier tonight. When I first started posting these chapters I said I'd do a wrap up with a revelation I had recently about the work.

I wrote this one a few years back because I wanted to see if I could do a darker version of Toy Story. I wanted the kid to be murdered and the story would be about whodunit. I didn't realize one thing, however, until I reread the whole thing in preparation for posting it online.

I had no idea why I'd named the kid Joey and the dad Wally until a few months ago. I've mentioned it here before, but the first friend I ever had was a kid named Joey. His dad Wally was friends with my stepdad, which was how we met. I think it explains a lot about me that the first friend I ever had died when I was a child. Joey was chewing on a pencil and accidentally broke a piece off and choked on it. Wally tried to save his life but couldn't do it.

It's how I learned about death and that I would someday die. I asked what happens after death, and mom said, "You go in the ground, and the worms eat you."

Yeah, if you have kids, don't tell them that. It scarred me for life and probably helped make me the way I am today. Maybe that's not entirely bad, but I wasn't off to a good start.

So here I am, probably around my 40th birthday, writing a story about a kid named Joey who dies, and his dad Wally is powerless to save him. How did I not notice that at the time? I mean, I was drinking heavily back in those days. I could put away nearly an entire handle of cheap whiskey a night. But I don't think I was that booze-addled when I wrote this. I don't write while drunk.

Weird, right? Although as I look at Toy Crime Story now, I feel like I was exorcising something, but I have no idea what it was. I think about the Catacombs and Man-E-Faces and wonder if maybe the specter of death was trying to get out of my system, but that seems too obvious. To quote an asshole owl, "The world may never know."

No, not Close Encounters. UHF, pal.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #760: 1 YEAR AND 90 DAYS

 

It has been one year and ninety days since my last drink, and it finally happened. I was wondering when it would happen due to my habits back in those days. It couldn't possibly be that it wouldn't happen. I'd hidden too much booze around my bedroom for there to not be any stashed away. I was starting to think I'd done a good job of getting rid of everything, but yesterday I found this bottle.

And there was still some booze left at the bottom. And it's Wild Turkey 101, my favorite alcoholic drink. Well, the favorite I can afford. My actual favorite is Bookers, but that costs nearly $90 a bottle these days.

So . . . 

I didn't. Because shit's been even more difficult than usual around here. I feel like every fucking day is a struggle, and it's a struggle without victory. Sometimes I lose the battle and have to do it all over again for the sake of the war. Oftentimes it's a Pyrrhic victory. More often than not it's an ongoing fight without any end in sight. And it's wearing me down.

The only times I feel I'm not in a fight for my goddam life is when I'm reading or watching a show or movie. All other times I'm under a constant attack from every fucking problem I've ever had EXCEPT for booze. Until yesterday, I guess.

I don't think I'm going to drink it. If it's going to have any power to make my troubles go away, at least temporarily, then I'm going to need a lot more than that. But I think I'm going to keep it around. You might recall how I agree with Emilio Estevez as Billy the Kid when he said that you have to test yourself every day.

Should be a good test.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #739: 1 YEAR, 47 DAYS

 It's been one year and forty-seven days since my last drink.

Today I decided to visit Gramps and Grandma, so I stopped by Williams Liquors for his usual airplane bottle of Jim Beam. Williams was my go-to liquor store. My second favorite was Corner Cottage on the other side of town, which had the distinction of being on the way home from work. Also, it was open super late on weekends. But Williams was my favorite.

Whenever I get Gramps's airplane bottle I go to Williams mostly because Corner Cottage doesn't always have them. The last twenty times I went there, they didn't. So even though it's on the way to the cemetery and Williams is not, I go to Williams for it.

Every time I've done this since I quit drinking I have only seen new people working there, but today was different. I saw my usual guy there for a change. He went above and beyond to help me. For example, when I broke my foot and couldn't really get around all that well, he would bring my booze out to the car for me. It was usually a handle of Flesichmann's back then, so I'd give him a twenty. He'd already have my change with him when he came out.

He was very surprised to see me. I can only assume he thought I'd died. I wouldn't blame him, either. Things got pretty rough near the end. If I hadn't stopped when I did, I probably would have died. I might not still be around to write GF #739 as I am doing now.

We talked for a bit, and when I told him I'd quit the booze, he didn't seem too surprised. He knew how much I drank back then. He had to. I came in every other day for a handle of cheap whiskey. Well, almost. When I wasn't going there, I was stopping by Corner Cottage.

Which makes me wonder if maybe the guys there think I died, too. Maybe I should stop by some time. They might think they've seen a ghost.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #706: ONE MOTHERFUCKING YEAR (and two days)

In case you missed it on my social media I did, indeed, make it to one motherfucking year without booze. This calls for a celebration! WHO'S FUCKING DRINKING?!?!?!?!

It's motherfucking booze time!

Woo-hooooooooo!!!!

Just kidding. It's apple juice.

See?

I know, I know, it may seem like a cruel joke, but to be fair I did test the waters out earlier this year. I mentioned, I think on Twitter, maybe not Facebook, that for April Fool's I should tell people I'd relapsed. Surprisingly few people objected, and a handful said they would think that was funny, so what the hell.

Here's a weird thing I didn't expect. The instant I put the ice in my Wild Turkey glass I felt this weird sensation. I wouldn't call it pleasure or pain, just weird. I only drink Tang out of my Wild Turkey glasses now, and you don't drink Tang on the rocks. It would dilute the awesomeness that is Tang. But I used to actually drink booze out of these things. On the rocks. And it set off a weird tripwire in me somewhere.

When I went to take the picture of me drinking, my body didn't want to do it. I had to remind my own body that it wasn't actually whiskey. I had to smell it again to confirm it before I actually put the glass to my lips. It was kind of weird sitting there with the rest of that glass by my side, just like I always used to have a glass of whiskey at my side whenever I got out of work. Just looking at it made me feel funky.

Did detox put me through the Ludovico Technique?

NOOOO! NOT BOOKERS!!!!
"Bookers? Eh, can't be helped."

If so, why did they not put everyone through it? Because I know people who were there with me who relapsed.

What if I had poured whiskey in there? Would my body have let me take the drink? I'm starting to wonder. It's possible that I might not even be able to drink anymore. Like, physically. If I tried I think my body would freeze and wouldn't let me.

Perhaps there's comfort in that. I guess if I ever do relapse, then I'll have to force myself to do it. I can't be the only one who thinks that. Any other addicts out there who are sure they'd have to go out of their way to relapse?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #705: 364

 As you can surmise from the title of this column, I am at the 364 day mark of my non-alcohol life. One year ago tomorrow I went to detox and got cleared of my physical booze dependency. It's been surprisingly easy. I have yet to relapse. But let's not get cocky yet. I still have time to go before I make it to my official one year mark. There is still one liquor store in Elmhurst open, and it's there until midnight. So who knows? Maybe I'll lose my shit after I post this and get drunk. I doubt it, but the possibility is still there. I kinda wish 365 was today, as I don't post GFs on weekends. Ah well.

So let's celebrate something else. One year ago tonight I was getting wasted for the last time. I remember I had maybe three fingers worth of whiskey at the bottom of a Flesichmann's handle. I also had the same in a fifth of Wild Turkey 101. Lastly I had my whiskey barrel that was maybe three-quarters full.

Earlier that day I was thinking about maybe putting an end to the madness. I was covered in bruises I no longer recall the cause of. I'd been found wandering the house naked and out of my mind. I'd broken some shit in my bedroom, and I think it was because I fell on top of it all. So yeah, the end was definitely nigh.

Before I ripped into the booze one last time, I thought I was sober. Looking back, I probably wasn't. When I turned myself in to detox, I thought I was sober, but when they asked me to blow I was well above the legal limit to drive. That made me think about all the times I thought I was sober and actually wasn't. How many times did I drive not knowing that I was actually fucked up?

Anyway, while I thought I was sober I called Sonny. I'm pretty sure I mentioned him before. When I was in and out of the hospital with pancreatitis, gastritis, gastroenteritis, kidney failure, etc., they'd send in all these shrinks to try to help me see my own alcoholism, and none of them worked. Then they sent Sonny in. He's possibly the most Italian guy I've ever met outside of my own family who wasn't a parody. And he cursed like a sailor. He didn't take it easy with me. He shot straight, no bullshit. So I called him when I'd had enough, and he scheduled a pickup for me the next day.

Before and after that, I tried calling a few friends looking for some kind of advice, which is odd for me because it's not something I ever do. A couple of my friends actually picked up. One before I started drinking, one after. I ripped through the Fleischmann's and Wild Turkey pretty quickly, and when I was done with all of this, I decided, okay, tomorrow I'm going to detox. Time to get fucked the fuck up RIGHT NOW. Who knows? This will probably be the last time.

A part of me laughed at that. Yeah. Right. I had no illusions about myself. I knew I would drink again, and sure enough, while I was in detox, I started planning on drinking when I got out.

So I settled down and emptied the whiskey barrel, and I drank that for the rest of the night until I was nearly comatose. I do remember taking that last drink, though, and it was pretty fucking good. It hit the spot. I was in just the right mood to sleep. Not too fucked up, not short of being fucked up, being just the right amount of fucked up. I was the Baby Bear of being fucked up on booze.

The next day I looked around for the usual hair of the dog, surprised to find none. I'd planned on having another drink before getting picked up, but I hadn't planned well enough. That was fine. I was sure that by the time I got to detox, I'd still be in good shape. Just in time to give me drugs to keep me from withdrawals and possibly seizures.

But I started getting twitchy. I thought maybe the withdrawals kicked in already. By the time I got to detox, I was certain of it even though I scored pretty high on their breathalyzer. I was shaking pretty bad by the time they made me sign the mountain of paperwork. I was so rough that even after they finally gave me Ativan, all I could do was stay in my bed. I didn't want to do anything else.

And so my booze-free life began. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I was seriously tempted to drink again. I don't know how I didn't. I don't even know why. I made plans to drink on my birthday last year, which would have made it my second day out, I think. Maybe third. I was going to get food and stop off at Williams Liquors and then have myself a solo birthday party.

When I drove to the liquor store I didn't stop. I didn't even look at the place. Like I said, I don't know why. I don't believe in a higher power, and I'm not in AA. I'm not a twelve-stepper. The only step I've taken is the first one, and I don't have interest in any of the others, especially not Step Two. Who knows? Maybe it's because I expect to drink again someday. I have my list of things that could get me to drink, and it's solid. A lot of it's not likely to happen, but some of it? Maybe.

Anyway. 364 days. I was about to toast to another 364 but, well, you know.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #677: 305

 It is 305 days since I last had a drink, and over the weekend I came the closest I've come yet to drinking again.

Diabetic neuropathy is a tricky son of a bitch. It means you lose feeling in your feet except, every once in a while, you get a sudden flare of pain. I haven't felt my feet in a few years except for that pain. It comes out of nowhere, and it takes your breath away, kind of like the second between getting kicked in the balls and then feeling the pain spread up through you. It feels like getting a railroad spike shoved into the sole of your foot for just a second and then goes away for a very long time. It's kind of like a bigger scale version of phantom limb pain. And I guess not a lot of you know what that's like, so imagine instead of the railroad spike you get a thick gauge needle instead. But the point is, the pain goes away almost as swiftly as it comes.

Except for Saturday night. I'd gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up because of that pain. I cursed and tried to go back to sleep only to feel it again ten seconds later. Right in the heel of my good foot. And the motherfucker just wouldn't stop hammering away at me. It drove me up the fucking wall, especially when I saw that I'd only been asleep for an hour. I knew that sleep was probably out of the question going forward.

And then I remembered what I usually did when it comes to treating pain: BOOZE. I'd take down at least a fifth of whiskey, and the pain would be so distant I wouldn't care about it anymore. That's how I got through a lot of injuries from dental surgery to the time I walked a piece of my toe off (yes, the toe that I eventually lost, but not because of that moment).

Well. What liquor store would be open at this hour? I looked at the clock and realized that Corner Cottage was still open for another two hours. I could go there and get back and drink myself into a blissful pain-free sleep.

Then I looked at my calendar and saw the 302 written on that date and sighed. Nope. Can't do that. What can I do?

When I need to sleep, I take two sleeping pills. You're supposed to take one, but I have a high tolerance for drugs. So on Saturday I took four of 'em and sweated through the pain until Morpheus took me off to the Dreamlands.

And I stayed there until almost noon on Sunday. Not surprising, but it shocked me because I'm usually up--against my will--by seven at the latest.

So yeah, I lost a lot of time because of that, but hey! At least the pain was gone when I woke up.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #633: 236

 It's my 236th day from booze, and I had a dream last night about drinking. I dreamed that I was at a party with a friend of mine, and someone said it was time for booze. That someone may or may not have been me.

So I grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured myself a huge glass of it. I should have known that I was dreaming at that point because I can't stand vodka. Vodka makes me do crazy things, usually after just one shot. I "remember" a time I tried to bang a hole through a friend's kitchen wall after a shot of vodka. The quotation marks are because I don't remember it. I was told about it the next day, and I believed it because my head was sore.

Anyway, in the dream I held up my glass and toasted my friend. "Here's to saying goodbye to 235 days!" I said.

He looked weird at me. "Dude, are you sure?"

"Hell yeah!' And I put the glass to my mouth. I felt the vodka splash on my lips. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't take a drink. I took the glass away and looked at it like it might be defective, then I tried it again with the same result.

Nope. I couldn't do it. It's weird because I remember, when I left detox, that I had every intention of drinking on my birthday and looked forward to it. And then I didn't do it. And now, even though there are times I'm tempted to drink, I don't do it because I have a part of me that's afraid to do it. I'm wondering if maybe my time in detox pulled a Ludovico type treatment on me.

I keep thinking I'm going to drink again one day, but maybe I won't. This dream makes me think I won't. If I can't make myself do it in a dream, there's no way in hell I can do it in real life, right?

There is still a list of things that I know will make me drink. One of them is probably going to happen soon. I guess I'll find out when that time comes.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #607: 200

 

It's my 200th day from booze, and while I was taking a break from writing GF columns, I found the first bottle of booze I ever drank.

Yeah, all right, I save weird things sometimes. I'm a pubic hair's width away from being a hoarder, and I guess my discovery of whiskey had enough of an effect on me that I knew I'd want to remember the bottle that started it all.

Except the whole thing got out of hand pretty badly. I've gone over that before, so I won't ramble about it again. Suffice to say that I don't think I became an alcoholic until my mid-thirties. I bought this bottle in my early twenties. I might still have been in college at the time.

Look at that! Only six faces on the label! Booker Noe was still the distiller back then. That would be the guy Booker's is named after, and that is my actual favorite whiskey in the world. Wild Turkey 101 is my favorite that I can afford. Booker's probably goes for $80 a bottle now.

Jim Beam was my choice back then because that was Gramps's favored drink (since no one could ever make a Manhattan to his satisfaction). Near the end of my boozing days I recognized how out of control things were getting. I was drinking Canadian whiskey that I bought at five bucks a handle, for Christ's sake. I made the decision that I would never drink anything cheaper than Beam. A lot of drinkers scorn the Beam choice, but it's fairly inexpensive, and it gets the job done.

Although if I could afford better, I usually got that instead.

I miss booze, but I'm a rare alcoholic who actually enjoys the taste. This seems like heresy, but I'm wondering if there are any non-alcoholic bourbons out there. That might be nice to look into.

Anyway, my next stop on the no booze wagon train is my year mark. Let's see if I can get there.

This man has no idea how awesome he's going to be in Zardoz.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #588: WHILE I'M THINKING ABOUT BOOZE . . .

 . . . I feel like I should remind you that my job's Christmas party of 2021 was so lame I didn't even go. I'm used to crazy parties with free booze and food, and I didn't feel like driving out to the middle of nowhere to pay for my own drinks and food. I skipped it. This year it went differently. They had it in the office for maybe a half an hour before we had to go back to work. I kinda just went in for the toast and then went back to work right away. No time for love, Dr. Jones.

There wasn't any real booze, but they did have some champagne, and you could have one even if you were still working. They offered me some, and I almost took it out of habit. Then I remembered, oh wait, champagne has alcohol in it. Not much. Certainly not enough to make me feel it. In truth, if I was still drinking I probably wouldn't have taken it, anyway. Champagne really isn't worth the alcohol content in it. I mean, probably.

I caught myself at the last moment and held up my energy drink instead. It kind of surprised me how fast I almost lost my days. While there isn't much booze in champagne, it would have been enough to send me back to zero days. And who knows? Maybe it would have been the blasting cap to me getting a bottle of whiskey from Williams Liquors on the way home. When I fuck up, I tend to think, well, it's the same punishment no matter how badly I fucked up, so might as well fuck it up all the way to the hilt. Get my money's worth.

Maybe in an alternate universe I got drunk on New Year's Eve.

You probably should have read this GF while listening to this. Whoops.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #560: 115

 The other day I could smell blood. That's a precursor of my seasonal nose bleeds. It happens every time we get a drastic change in weather. So I figured that since winter is coming, it might be time to visit my grandparents one last time before it starts to snow.

Today is my 115th day from booze, so yesterday was 114. Whenever I visit Gramps I take an airplane bottle of Jim Beam with me. I usually have one for myself, too, but times change. I went to the liquor store and bought one (1) of them. I asked for an airplane bottle. I was told that they're called shooters. The clerk wondered why I said airplane bottles, but after she thought about it, she figured it out.

I went out to the cemetery and visited with my grandparents. It was a nice day. Possibly the last nice day we'll have for a while. I sat cross-legged on the cold ground, and after maybe ten minutes I pulled out the Beam.

This time I remembered that I wanted to smell it before pouring it out on Gramps's side of the grave. I'd heard that recovering alcoholics can't stand the smell after a while, and I had my doubts because I always loved the smell of whiskey, bourbon in particular. So I took a whiff and nearly recoiled. Huh. So it *is* true.

I'm honestly surprised that I haven't had a drink since detox. I planned on drinking for my 44th birthday and then just . . . didn't. I also had plans to drink for Christmas, but the closer we get to the day, the more I realize I don't want to do it. Here's the kicker: I'm kind of scared to. Fear doesn't come easily to me, so it very much surprised me. I've felt pretty confident that I could just have one drink and be fine. Hell, maybe two, right? Three, tops.

But what if I decide, hey, I've come this far, why not four? I've always liked fives, so maybe I should bring it up another level. But I also like even numbers, so why not six? Did I have six already? Maybe I should take one more for good measure. Wow, I'm fucked up. Hell with it. I'm already this far gone. Might as well finish the bottle.

But it's good to know that I don't like the smell anymore. I can only imagine how horrible the taste would be now.