Lost Again

I’m writing this because there isn’t any alcohol in the house.

It’s been fourteen days.

I’d kill to get drunk.

I’ve sold out for a bottle of cheap strong wine – tomorrow.

Because there’s only so much pain I can stand.

And I’ve reached a point where I hate every word that I write – where I over complicate things – where the tiniest criticism breaks me down into tears. Let’s face it, I’m a rubbish writer.

I just want to get blind, blind drunk.

Like…really drunk.

I don’t care that I’ll be alone and in pain. I just want this over with…done. I’m fed up of my own incomprehension…because I genuinely believed that those words were good and then you crashed me back to earth. So thanks for that. Now I’m doubting everything.

I thought it was beautiful – elaborate. That’s kind of become my style. You should always have to dig behind the writing to get to the meaning, right?

Apparently not.

So…life. Consider this my resignation letter.

I’m going to get drunk. Blind, blind drunk.

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