Sobriety Now

I'm broken, depressed and exhausted.

One year ago today I was engaged to be married. It didn’t work out as I had planned after I bought a $12,000 ring and bamboozled a kindly woman into thinking she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.

When that masterplan went sideways, I had a proper midlife crisis in which I donned a wig and followed the 7-9 Cleveland Browns from coast to coast like a Grateful Dead roadie.

I subsequently spent thousands of sliding-scale dollars on therapy. One common refrain from the empathetic man with fancy degrees... what if I stopped thinking it was normal to drink Tito’s to the point I couldn’t remember six-hour blocks of my life?

The truth is I come from a long lineage of Irish alcoholics. While my body might look soft and shitty, it’s actually a war machine finely tuned through generations of unhealthy decisions and self-loathing.

And as it turns out the governor outlawing bars hasn’t been a boon for my sobriety.

It’s at the point where I can face half a handle of Tito’s Handmade Vodka and wake up without a hangover. People have been asking if I’m okay and the answer is hell no I’m not okay. I fell in love with a Marionaire who is 100% emotionally unavailable. Also I live in the one industrialized country without nationalized healthcare during as a global pandemic is sending the global economy into a financial meltdown for the second time in 10 years.

The good news is I’m out of Tito’s Handmade Vodka. Normally I would simply venture to the South Franklinton liquor store to purchase another couple of handles and continue to post memes about publicly executing landlords.

Instead I’m taking the advice of my good friend, Centrist Jon. “We gotta get your ass to rehab before you run for office again,” he correctly advised while we ripped shots of tequila at the Main Bar. (Miss you, Main Bar.)

Unfortunately for our society, I refuse to pay $25,000 to some quacks in robes to lecture me about the benefits of exercise and a diet of plant-based diet like those are concepts I never contemplated in all the hours I spent puking in my toilet after a night of binge drinking. Going sober during a pandemic is about the best I can offer.

Tecumseh quit drinking at 32 and he went on to become one of the most revolutionary figures in American history. Not saying that I plan to organize an indigenous confederation into an armed insurrection against the genocidal federal government. But I’m not opposed to the idea either.

I don’t plan to stay sober for the rest of my life. Lord knows I’m from Marion and there’s a better chance of God letting me win the Mega Millions. I’m definitely spending $1,000 at Main Bar on our first night out on bail.

My options are dwindling. It’s either I emerge from this pandemic as an obese alcoholic with a cooking problem or someone who is sober and capable of running five miles with an assault rifle strapped over his shoulders.

Given that I don’t have the heart to kill myself, I’m thinking it’s probably best if I spend my time training for a revolution in case that’s a thing you yokels realize we should do as soon as we issue the dawg check to coronavirus. I’m trying to come out of this pandemic buff as hell.

I did 90 days sober last summer. I lost weight, saved money and the neurons fired in my brain at a rate unseen since I began poisoning my cerebral cortex at the ripe age of 16. Outside of that stretch when I correctly convinced myself that I have a myriad of substance abuse issues, I don’t think I’ve done 90 days sober in total.

Maybe we will return to our regularly scheduled depression broadcast tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll fuck around and finish that novel that’s been sitting on my hard drive since that time in 2011 when I was unemployed on 14th Avenue and banging 60 milligrams of Vyanse every day.

All I know is it’s time for me to stop talking about going sober for long stretches of time like it’s that trip to Tokyo I always tell my friends I want to do. My mind needs to heal even if my writing will probably fall off a cliff.

I would normally summon my Swagittarius energy and say something like “Not my problem.”

Unfortunately for me it is my problem. So please take this time to subscribe to The Rooster at a special discounted rate before my writing becomes boring and regimented. Smashing words into poorly edited sentences on the internet for the entertainment of strangers is the only marketable skill I have. Please don’t make me go get a real job.

THOSE WMDs. How are you doing? I’m a mess, thanks… Why celebrities are losing their goddamn minds during a global pandemic… We can do it: It’s time for a massive wartime mobilization to save our economy… Why members of Congress got tested for coronavirus without showing symptoms… Do I have to pay my rent or mortgage during a global pandemic… Strikes at Amazon and Instacart over virus concerns.