Not Too Bad Thanks - Make Mine A Neat Voddy

I was wide awake last night in the early morning, if I had relapsed on a comedown I wouldn’t have been able to cope. The night can be so hard. As it was, I pulled out my notepad and did a spot of word. I even drew a picture. The whole process killed a couple of hours. With something original blasted out onto the page, I was able to relax in my head with a sense of mini accomplishment.

Bite to eat. Few smokes. Cups of tea.

This morning I’ve been to a large AA meeting. I’ve started to relax in front of everyone now, talking about how my rejuvenated writing and my improved perception are getting me through extraordinarily tough mental health challenges and debilitating substance addiction. 

I met one particular guy yesterday who happened to offer his spiritual philosophies to me over a drink (ironic, considering I'm in AA). One thing I took from him is this: That reality is like a wide open computer game. That statement has resonated with me. He went too far in the end though, by calling me a robotic slave, after necking a full pint in one, so I deserted him. Like one or two other interesting drinkers, they may have something very intriguing to share, but their opinions are tarnished by a deep resentful bitterness of something like their partners, the world, or you yourself.

Maybe they are pissed off because they are pissed up. Sober people rarely get passive-aggressive, compared to tipplers. You can tell by the way someone sups if they have a problem with the booze.

I once knew a guy who would down straight vodka from the bottle and then collapse in the gutter. He once went swimming naked in the local brook and lost his false teeth. He would spit all over his computer when he was on Facebook, for some strange reason. He had so many cans littering his front room that it was hard to open the door. He got so bad that a film crew turned up one day and recorded a documentary about the morbid state of hopeless alcoholism.

He used to be a marine. When he wasn’t wasted, he would look tip-top in the gym. It was such a shame, the difference that neat voddy made to him.

His name was Kev. I have some of his writing. He wrote a piece about being homeless, printed in cursive italics for effect. It seemed like he really felt his plight to the marrow of his bones. Some people are cut out for arduous ordeals, like prison or poverty, while others have a tough time getting to grips with their tribulations. I know what it’s like to tolerate wretched seasons. They follow one another endlessly, it would appear to be. The only consolation is that life is but a breath in the mind of God, and the wheat will be cut from the chaff in Heaven and Hell, where we will be dealt with in eternity. If you believe such nonsense truths. If not, get rich or die tryin’.