Drink yourself to death

I seem to be intent upon drinking myself to death. I have the hiccups and to my bereft, I can’t seem to think of anything worth the theft of a moment’s time. I hate this, to be honest. I wish I had my ex-partner with me here but now I have nothing except whiskey and darkness to fill my time and mind. There is absolutely no hope left in me and everything I write takes on a suicide note kind of levity. There is no way I’m getting out of this and the hiccups are the ellipses to throwing up so I don’t know why I continue to fill my cup but as soon as this sentence ends, I will be up, grabbing the bottle and placing it within easy reach.

Okay, let’s think for a second. I can’t think. I think I’m going to publish this but then I think not. I think I’m going to live through this, and then I think not.

I’m tired and my gut is filled with rot. Drink more.

That sip should have been painful but it was not. Maybe I am beyond pain, beyond the dregs, like a chorus to refrain, lost my legs and bleed out.

My mom cleans up everything. She cleaned up after her mother bled out from cirrhosis of the liver. Am I really gonna make her clean up after her son too?

Boo hoo, ya drunk.

Poor me, poor me, pour me another drink.

My alma mater said “I would have perished had I not persisted” and could there be a better post script for how I have existed, I just wonder how much longer I can persist to exist. I’ll perish on my own time. Like a dime left in the pocket after laundry time, clean and ready to be spent some time.

I wonder about my liver enzymes. Doctors run tests and they test my patience. I’m an inpatient patient without any patience, the picture of impatience.

Let’s do a rain dance.

Drink the water like whiskey and the whiskey like water.

No reason but the reason for another drink.

This day ends in ay, Tuesday, Monday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, my my.

I only drink on days that end in ay.

Aye, aye.