I brought the bottle in the shower with me. She can’t swat at it. She can’t call me scum. She can’t accuse me of having a problem in here. Not in here. In here is where I’ll drown everything out. They’ll say, “He drowned in the shower,” and I’ll laugh at the irony. That’s ironic right? Who fucking knows. Another swig. The shower’s gonna make my beer warm so I open up my throat and take in the whole contents of the bottle. Shit, I wish the ziggy zaggy guy from The Man Show was still alive. We’d have a hell of a drink together.

In therapy they told me that life was a ride that you had to be sober to appreciate fully. I don’t know about anyone else, but I really fucking like it when the ride makes me dizzy. Even better if it leaves a mark. Bruises from the walls I run into, cuts from the bar brawls, and scars from the dumb stunts. All of it, have at it, God, mar the body, punish me for being crap.

I guess I am being punished, I mean, someone sent me her. The woman currently shooting up some ungodly substance in my living room. She follows me around with a broom and calls me trash, trying to knock my beer from my hand. Apparently I’m an addict, I wish I had more mirrors for this one to look into. I’m an addict. That’s a laugh, really. If it weren’t so R-rated, I’d say we’re playing some sort of childhood game meant to distract from homework and encourage socialization. “Ok, Timmy, what you have to do is carry around this drink and not let her spill it. Your little girlfriend over there is gonna take a few swings at it (and you) with that there broom. If you let her knock down the beer she’ll have bragging rights. She’ll stand over you like she won something.” Nothing worse than a bitch with bragging rights, that’s for sure.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing in the shower. Don’t remember taking off my clothes. I peak around the curtain, my jeans are on the floor but my shirt is hanging from the drug cabinet. Its neck is a leech’s mouth, sucking at the corner of the mirror, just dangling there waiting. That shirt wants my goddamned blood. I step out, no towel, of course not. I’m losing my buzz though, and that’s not ok.

She’s seen me naked, what do I care? I walk out of the shower, cross the kitchen, and peer into the living room before I let the fridge light up the room. She’s on the couch, passed out. My heart’s doing a delicious victory dance in my chest and I smile with my mouth and I feel it in my eyes. Only drunk smiles hit my whole face like a truck, and it feels fucking fantastic. I keep staring at her and slowly open the refrigerator.

The thing lights up the whole damn living room of my tiny apartment, but she doesn’t move. Actually, she doesn’t look so good. I must be drunk every time I see her cause she’s not pretty, but seriously, she looks like hell. I get another beer, turn on the living room light, and start to cross the room. I get close enough to see the color of her skin isn’t natural. Her lips are looking like my favorite crayon, and it’s not pink. Leave it to this bitch to really ruin my buzz.