Some nights, I fall and hard. My hands are heavy and numb from the constant beer bottles shuffling out of my hands. It’s an easy addiction made only easier by having a rough or less than stellar work day. Does that mean I’m proud of the amount of liquid courage cascading down my throat? Absolutely not. Drinking is a bitch. Unfortunately, it brings out the worst in me when I tread passed calm and relaxed and into unadulterated chaos. I’m a mess, but only some days.
I’ve asked a close friend if doing these activities somehow makes me a bad person. Does the infrequent nights where I willing indulge in my guilty pleasures define me? She says no. I’ve found myself asking her for advice on more than one occasion, since she’s a nurse by night and someone I’ve known for more than half my life. My core group of friends have one skewed and often colored perception on the topic of drinking and other illicit activities. I reasonably couldn’t expect the truth from them. Say it ain’t so.
Other days, I feel completely untouchable. I’ll run my usual 5K and feel the rush of endorphins flooding my inner cranium. It stopped being hard since last year and now is the go to method for stress relief. Maybe the sales for the month are at a new all time high and my bonus is larger than ever. Good news tends to trickle in — only making it more scarce and of a lower threshold.
I’m no saint, but I have honesty going for me. What do I have to lose? Almost every week I ask myself: What the fuck am I doing?