Alcohol is a Poor Excuse for a Drug

I always knew when I was a kid I'd grow up to be an alcoholic. No one believed me then.

I didn't aspire to it. It wasn't a goal. I just knew my mind couldn't go on its own gasoline for too long. Evetutally that tank would run dry and I'd have to find an alternative power source. And that I'd never accept the standards (lithium, prozac, paxil, zoloft).

I had always hoped I'd never live this long where it would matter. I had high expectations. That I'd gather the courage and the wits required to end one's life quietly without much ado.

Turns out what was missing from that scenario all along was alcohol. Had I had booze with me that night at the hotel I coulda cut all the way through those wrists. Or failing that, choked on my own vomit.

But I didn't have it then. And here I am. I have it now. But what to do. So much older. So many more obligations. And ramifications if. Wait for this so-called poison to prove itself? I should've picked a harder drug. Cause this one kills much too slowly.