Alcoholics Synonymous.

K could not sit still. In between his index and middle finger, he held a cigarette. In the other hand he held a cup of coffee. The cup was incredibly hot, but he was so consumed with frustration from other fruitless countless nights, that were engulfed with nothing but misery and aimless thoughts, he didn`t even notice. 

Inspiration was not striking him like it had it the past. It was like it had gone from constantly sunny days to cloudy, dim, foggy, times. This feeling of restlessness only increased with each exhale of cigarette smoke and sip of coffee. A combination so cliche, but it didn`t seem to bother him, it is what he enjoyed. He took pride in hand rolling his own cigarettes. Although if he were too drunk to make them perfect, he would be fine with anything that was atleast "workable". 

K could not longer take part in what he loved to indulge in the past, because at this point, it would most likely kill him. So the indulgences he does take part in now are only, but a few, but he seeks to make the best of it and not sulk in the corner. 

With each exhale , he can taste the difference from let us say a "camel" or a "marlboro". With each sip of coffee he can taste and differentiate the different he beans crushed used for the coffee. This was a common practice of his in these recent times. 

Still nothing.

Just aimless thoughts and regrets from his past filled his mind. Memories resurfacing out of the blue to occupy a mind that is trying to forget them. And a neighbor`s dog that just keeps barking and barking with the owner paying no mind. 

It is  almost as if he is trying to torture himself for not doing what he has been noted to be the best at by his peers : Writing. The weight of the expectations put upon him. 

Not only having to do himself proud, but alot more people as well. 

His family. His "friends". His agent. And so on and so forth. 

Although for K, it is certainly not the pressure that is necessarily keeping him from his work. 

Maybe it is just...he thinks he has done his best work already.

Maybe, the drive to succeed and impress is no longer there.

It is deep, very deep within him, he knows this. 

K, although unconciously, thinks a glass of his favorite whiskey, or a strain of of his favorite "mota" as he likes to call it, or even a line of some white columbian substance may drive his creative force. 

As he smokes the finest of his own hand rolled cigarettes, he ponders this thought.

In the past, these vices certainly did seem to excel his creative force.

The people responded with enormous praise, as did the critics. 

There was a little bit of tobacco left in the cigaratte left. He looked at it for a brief moment in contemplation of quiting as all people "who want to quit, but never do,do" and crushed the rest out and angrily threw the butt into the street. 

With, the now luke-warm coffee, he tossed the rest into the bushes beside him and went back inside his home. 

As he nestled back into the comforts of his humble abode, he could not help but think where his life was heading and how it would eventually end. Even with the success and everything that comes with it, K knew he was no different from everyone else. He would eventually be no more. Would it end with him surrounded by his loved ones and his adoring fans posting "RIP. A legend was lost today" on Twitter or would he be alone with an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand,an empty syringe in his arm, and an empty bottle of anti-anxiety medication on top of his $25,000 Victorian drawer. 

He walked towards the kitchen, thinking to himself,"Should I take my old nosing glass and pour it to the brim with Jameson and gain some inspiration?"

Instead, he felt something. K has not relieved himself all day. 

His stomache was making a sound familar to him that needed immediate attention. 

He tightened every muscle in his body as much as he possibly could, without straining himself. Slowly, but surely, he pushed his thighs and calves together to keep from having to explain to his maid why a foul smelling mess was all over his kitchen floor. 

Now. As nice as a big house can be, it does have its downsides.

This particular architect who constructed this home put four bathrooms within the confines of this enormous place.

One is in the master bedroom, which is entirely too far, for this gastrol phenomenon happened suddenly and was coming faster than Usain Bolt on a 100 meter sprint. 

Another was in his daughter`s old bedroom, but as with the master bedroom, the same problem emerged, it was too far.

The final two rooms with toilets were slightly farther from one another. 

K had to make a definite decision. And fast. 

In a desperate move, he quickly changed his stance from that of a penguin stumbling towards warmth to that of a decorated Olympic athlete. 

Still clenched, he awkwardly, yet quickly found his way to the bathroom that was about twenty five feet from where he first stood.

If there were a bystander present at this notably unique scenario, they would have witnessed quite a magnificent feat.

To watch such an act. An act that consisted of running fifteen feet through a granite kicthen floor, with a magnificent marble counter top. 

Then to make a sharp left through a hall, with only having ten more steps to get to that porecelain throne.

Even alone, he still had his dignity. 

God forbid, he would have relieved himself all over his kitchen.

Albeit it may be his own defecation.To tarnish his own home he has worked so hard to get. He could not let that happen. 

Finally. Now sitting. At peace. Doing his business where it should be done, he realized a few things. His underwear and sweatpants remained unsoiled. Also.

He was holding a glass. Not an empty glass, but a glass filled to the brim with the Jameson he so longly felt he needed.

END OF CHAPTER 1. SOME CHAPTERS ARE LONGER THAN OTHERS.