You know you're in rough shape when, instead of coffee with breakfast, you take two Lortab and a half-empty glass of Bacardi Select. I had other indications leading up to this point, such as a harmless nightcap becoming half the bottle. I should also mention those narcotics aren't prescription. I buy them 10-count from a young Latino kid who lives on my floor.
"It shouldn't be this way," I think for the millionth time as I pour the burning rum down my reluctant throat. "Oh yeah? How should it be?" the booze immediately muscles in. These silent discussions between my substances and me are common and generally harmless--unless the substances band together and gang up on me. It happens.
I take a small, uninterested and uncommitted bite of unbuttered toast before responding to myself: "I should be successful. I should have... nice things." The Bacardi scoffs. "Things? What more do you need than a little chemical altering?" I consider this point. As far as basics go, they're all being met. It's the additional bits and pieces of the human experience I'm missing out on. Wardrobe, for one. I look down at the tragic pieces of fabric I've tossed over my limp body this particular morning. Hello drab grey sweat pants. Hello tight black tank-top. Sorry about that bleach stain that looks like New Jersey.
The clothes don't respond.
