Hitting rock bottom

A disastrous birthday

This was the day of regret and shame. Regret, not only because I haven’t been able to stay sober for many days at a time, perhaps not more than three or four tops after the first week, but also because I spent the money I was supposed to spend on my japanese course, which I mentioned early on. Now I had to pay for that out of my travel account. My all so hollow travel account. Shame because I did something as ambitious and egocentric as blogging about my pledge to do 365 sober days, and then break my vows before two weeks had passed. Talking about throwing myself to the lions, or the trolls of cyberspace. From social anxity to social pornografi and back on a tray of assorted shots.

Yes, it was a wonderful birthday! Beautiful weather, one dillion greetings on facebook and messenger and so on, and a lovely picnic at the local pond where I fed my self enough food to saturate every worker at an average clothing factorie in Bangladesh. Unfortunatly I wasn’t just overfilled. I managed to food poison myself to the extent that I spent the rest of the day in the bathroom where I was amazed by my bodys ability to empty it self out of two outputs at once. At the same time I was very thankful for the size of the room which allowed me to sit steady on the porcelain throne with my head in a not to uncomfortable angle i the sink, before I collapsed on the ice cold floor using the doorstep as a pillow after working out my sixpack that much I could still feel the burn a week later. And that was probably the only reason I didn’t drink more than one beer that day.

At least I got a rubber chick for my birthday. It wasn’t til the moment when I was standing there in the middle of the night with that thing in my hand, after I had recovered just a little from dizziness and nauseating contractions, and I heard the sound of that, to say the least ugly piece of rubber, that I realized that I had wished for this piece of crap, exactly this, for years. I’m sure I’ve wanted it for as long as I’ve been reading comics. That means as long as I’ve been able to read; 41 years. 5 years less than I’ve been loving cats. I have no idea why, but now you know: the cats was here before the chick.

This must be the most pointless ending I’ve ever written…

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