My skin is expelling months of sin and my brain is swelling around the lack of sanity and my body shakes like an earthquake but all I want is sleep and there are sounds all around from sirens and screaming and evil overtakes my eyes as I glance upon the ground for something, anything when a white angel flutters up to me from below so I hastily tear into it and the answer is there right in my hands, the answer to make or break or fight or flight or whatever other cliche applies to this particular situation.
I decide to make it, to fight.
(Disclaimer: This post contains a lot of fucks, but not a lot of fucks given.)
I’m an addict. We all know this. It’s old news.
I mean, I guess that depends on what your definition of old is. Is 10 years old? Because that’s when it started. So really, my addiction is in elementary school.
Which makes me feel a little better about this next bit, because if my addiction is in elementary school than my sobriety is still a toddler. It’s probably not even in daycare yet.
So it’s only natural for it to forgo the potty; to forget how horrible shitting all over yourself is, and want to do it again, right?