Losing control

Your eyes blink open. You're waking up. 7 hours ago you manoeuvred your body into the recovery position. Raising your arm, your watch illuminates your dirt-smothered face. It's 6:10 a.m. Your phone is dead. You haphazardly rummage through your bag– thankfully still in your possession– and plug your phone into a battery bank. You book a cab to bring you back home, whatever's left of you anyway.

The cab's here. Though you're unsure if you can do it, nevertheless it's time to stand up. Finding your footing, you take one last look at what was your cocoon for the past seven hours of detoxifying rest.

Who knew an alleyway could be so comfortable?

Ironic. Only a day after feeling wronged, hell, betrayed for being accused as an alcoholic clinging onto the oily substance as a coping mechanism, you're on the floor trying not to throw up. Again.

Were they right? Fuck no. Alcohol has never been a coping mechanism for you. It has always been an ill-advised mix of chronic masturbation and the most impure methamphetamine one is forced to purchase given an hour's notice at two in the morning on a nondescript Wednesday. Not that you're allowed to do the latter anymore. Then again, were you ever?

You now solve all your problems in therapy. Life isn't that bad anymore.

So, what the hell are you doing? Why drink half a litre of 62.5% ABV spirit in the span of an hour?

Because you're really fucking stupid with no self-control.

You're not a depressed alcoholic finding solace in a glass. You're just a dumbass that misses the intoxicating high of really illegal drugs. You've replaced that with overdosing on the only legal intoxicant you're allowed.

You projectile vomit into public toilets and smile, laughing at your disorderly state because you love the feeling of losing control. Odd, given your daytime obsession of being in control.

Freedom to you is also the freedom to just fuck up every part of your body and your government has no say in that. Hell, they'd pump your stomach and let you do it again the next day. You so miss the freedom of destroying yourself that you've let yourself host these occasional nights of self-destruction, fuelled by a brain that normally exhibits a sparse sense of self-control, and none whatsoever three standard drinks in.

You're just an idiot chasing the high of fucking around ungoverned. Congratulations, you earned a hangover and lost the respect of another three people in your life.

Let's do it again in January.