Whiskey Love

[Originally written October 2011, with some editing today. Inspired by a tweet that became the first sentence of this piece.]


3 a.m. Whiskey in a glass, face in my hands.

I'm here again. I've been here a lot lately. Fuck.




I look up at the ceiling through my fingers. I feel the weight of my inner demons pressing against me. It's okay, chica, this part never lasts long. Just wait it out.

My dog whimpers at me. I look down where she leans her head against my calve. How the fuck does she stay in such an awkward position. More whimpering. I look at her. She looks back. Her whimpers turn more pitiful.

"Not now," I tell her. I don't recognize my voice; it sounds mean and hollow. Maybe that's what I sound like these days.

I stare at the brick wall. It says nothing back. Cunt.

The notebook before me has nothing but a few marked out sentences, each one more violently crossed out than the one before. Last time, whatever the vile sentence was, I scratched it out so viciously that I felt the pen going through the sheets below, already tainting my future writing. Thanks, bitch. Didn't need the help.

I sigh. I must have sighed loudly because it wakes up my other dog.

My hand reaches for the glass of whiskey next to me, an action as reflexive and easy as breathing. First the cool condensation on my fingertips the glass pressed between my lips, my head falling back to drink it all down leaving my neck exposed as if to a lover a beast and that's what this, is isn't it, it's a living breathing life-sucking thing devouring me even though I'm the one drinking it down glass after glass.

Whiskey chill enters and runs down my throat, sending back up in its place a hair-pulling burn. For an instant just an instant it feels as if my entire body is on fire.

It feels like sex.

No. No. Not like sex. It feels like fucking.

Spilling pooling staggering wet sweaty mindfuck oblivion fucking is what it feels like. Each time I pour another hearty gulp of alcohol down into my mouth splashing over my tongue like jizz like pussy juice like fucking I feel it pulling me down with it like a whirlpool.

The highball glass so cool in my hand then like fire the whiskey shoots down my throat blowing me wide  open like a gun to my head a cock to my pussy a gasp to my center it's focusing me then spreading all over every part of me like a dream I never want to leave.

I crave it. The intense fiery focus then the warm comfort of nothingness yet simultaneous everythingness spreading all over me down to every nerve in my fingertips and every thought in my head. It's that moment when I'm just body no mind no heart that I wish I could live a thousand years in. I would I have cut my wrists to feel that way a little bit longer. Please. All I need is a little longer to feel everything and nothing at the same time. To feel my version of happiness. But it doesn't work that way. And why the fuck should it.

So I keep drinking. I keep fucking. Always chasing that low high, that glorious place where all feels right, because this maybe I think is where I was born to be.