Comments Posted By Thompson
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If getting beating up by a case of Diet Coke is the worst thing that happened today John then it could’ve been worse. Preliminary job interview for me today. Now I have to play the waiting game before I find out if I’m through to the next round. Call center work, which triggers the fuck out of me and, if my situation were more stable, I’d avoid but beggars/choosers and I’ll take absolutely anything, I’m that desperate.
I thought it went pretty well, save for perhaps explaining the 3-year gap in my employment history, which I waved off as “being a carer for my disabled partner” aka the ex. Temu Jack Black the interviewer seemed happy with my answers.
The worst thing though was the fucking shaking and twitching. I thought because it was over Zoom I wouldn’t feel as nervous and anxious as with an in-person interview, so much so I decided not to drink. But even though I’ve been dry for a week now I turned into a bobblehead like I was on day 1 WD’s. Even before the interview ended I groaned internally because I know if I get this I’m going to have to go on the mouthwash again so as not to appear a bag of nerves all the time. I’d been planning on trying to get some dry time in for my health. In-person interview next, training class of 40 people? No way am I getting through that sober without looking like I have a palsy.
I thought Jesus when did I become such a nervous wreck? I used to work a busy and stressful server job, making sure I was getting large party orders right while dodging around my catty coworkers; how was I able to do that then but now I’m shaking like a leaf over a bloody Zoom interview? Oh yeah, that’s right, I was always sauced then. May as well get at the mouthwash.
Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 16/April/2026 @ 3:55 am
I’m amazed you have the energy to hit up bars on a daily basis, John. In my early alcoholic days it was unthinkable for me not to go out if it was the weekend and I had money. While I drank at home Sunday-Thursday, the call of the meat market come the weekend was too strong to resist; pubbing and clubbing was just as much about chasing tail as it was a socially acceptable medium for me to publicly indulge my alcoholism.
But as time went by, daydrinking became an everyday thing, and my tolerance rose to such a degree it was hammering my finances and I was scrambling for booze money all the time, I decided to eventually pack it in because what’s the point in paying an arm and a leg for overpriced pub/club booze – and the always-expensive taxi home! – when I could just stay at home and get blasted in my underwear on the cheap? At home I controlled the jukebox, there were free video games, company was great (2 pet rats – Jackson and Tobias – who never complained), and if I was feeling a bit frisky I was always guaranteed some action (with a choice of which hand to use).
Since then, outside of the ex (the one who bashed me in the head with a rock) dragging me to one watering hole or another, I think I’ve only gone to a bar alone <5 times between 2019 and 2022. Just not my scene anymore – I'm getting too old to be man-whoring around and it's always instant, maximum, regret when it comes time to paying my tab, and I mentally chide myself I could have bought soooo much more alcohol with that money if I'd just gone to the shop instead.
No judgment on my fellow boozers like you John who still enjoy the scene, but I'm always mildly surprised when folks talk about still frequenting drinking establishments.
» Posted By Thompson On 19/March/2026 @ 4:55 am
That stolen-car story sounds like a tale worth telling, John. And three glasses of wine sounds like a nice apertif, a precursor if you will for many drinks to follow. I think it’s better to have an enabling partner than for one’s alcoholism to be a source of constant fighting and bad feelings in a relationship. You can dry out for a while, if you want to, and they’d understand; or you can carry on the booze cruise and it’s not a problem for them. Sounds like a win-win scenario to me.
Alcoholic problems require alcoholic solutions.
» Posted By Thompson On 13/March/2026 @ 5:35 pm
I swear John if it’s not our organs turning on us it’s something like bloody rodents. I need to do something about these bloody mice. They’re getting into areas I didn’t think they could, or would want to, reach. I’m rapidly running out of food and I discovered a box of precious pasta had been chewed open and the contents gnawed at. The little bastards are getting so bold they’re openly scurrying over the countertops now. Morgoth the Third (my companion cat) doesn’t really care to mess with them anymore, and I now know my catch-and-release trap is well and truly buggered because I baited it with a largeish chicken bone (from Xmas dinner) figuring if the mouse was too light to trigger the pressure plate itself, the extra weight from trying to drag the bone out surely would. I woke up this morning to find the trap unsprung but the bone was missing. I need to get a new trap but that’s money I don’t have right now and I’ve looked into the DIY traps, like the bucket one, but the mice aren’t really at ground level and I don’t have a bucket anyway.
» Posted By Thompson On 06/March/2026 @ 1:40 pm
That Taco Bell looks like a good trip down memory lane, John. I had a memory of my own today, my first booze withdrawals (I am sure you can relate): It was late 2014 and, after I woke up one morning and went into the kitchen for some water, I decided to have a little soup that I’d left on the stovetop the night before. Tin of oxtail with some frozen mixed veg thrown in. One of my favorite comfort meals back in the day.
I put a spoon in the pot, one of those ladle-like Asian soup spoons, and as I lifted it out my hand was shaking to such an extent I involuntarily emptied the spoon back into the pot before it even cleared the rim. Huh, that’s weird. I tried again and made it a little further, spilling soup over the stovetop this time. Weird, must be a pinched nerve or I slept on my arm badly or something.
Did some arm circles and stretches thinking that would clear things up, and went for the soup again. This time I noticed my hand shaking as the spoon went into the pot. Once more I shook the soup out of the spoon and back into the pot and over the stovetop.
One last time, after a nervous chuckle (what the hell is going on?) I decided to two-hand the spoon. Got a little more clearance that time…and ended up spilling the soup all over the kitchen floor.
I ditched the spoon, figuring the ‘problem’ would clear up on its own over the course of the day. Ended up shakily tipping some of the soup out into a small bowl.
I tried to sup from the bowl using both hands, while still stood in the kitchen, but found I couldn’t fully extend my arms up, or had full range of motion, to bring the bowl up to my lips. It’s like when you have a weightlifting sesh that might be too much for you and in the acute post-workout period you find your arms simply will not extend fully. You’re looking at them, you’re willing them lift higher, but they simply will not move. I had to sit down, brace my elbows on my knees, and lean in to sup from the bowl.
I was shaking so badly at that point that when I put my lips to the edge of the bowl the porcelain was clattering against my teeth. Trying to will my hands and arms to stabilize made the shaking worse, and I was either twitching away from the bowl or jerkily spilling soup on to the carpet in front of my couch.
I gave up and set the bowl aside, to try again later or something.
Got up to get dressed and head to the shop for some sauce, praying I had enough money for some vodka. My shaking hadn’t improved and I could feel my whole body trembling then. What if it gets worse? I opened the front door and almost walked into my ex-girlfriend, who had her arm out, just about to knock on the door.
Although we’d split up months before, it wasn’t (entirely) acrimonious; just the usual sad story of a normie partner who eventually reached their breaking point with an alcoholic lover and couldn’t take any more. But we’d been in contact virtually every day since she moved back in with her parents, and she’d frequently expressed concern with my drinking and my deteriorating mental stability.
She took a step back, brows raised in surprise, and gasped “oh my God, are you ok?” I was like “yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Why? What’s up? Why are you here?” She said she wanted to come check on me, make sure I was ok because I hadn’t responded to her last message in a while. She’d busted me once passed out in the bath and I’d apparently sank down low enough the water level was just under my open, snoring, mouth. After she moved out she repeatedly asked me to shower instead of bathing “in case something happened” and she wouldn’t be there to check on me.
“Why are you shaking?” She asked, a note of concern in her voice. “Shaking? I’m not shaking. I mean my arm’s kinda twitchy because I must have slept on it badly or something…” She breezed past me, taking me by the arm and marching me to the large mirror at the end of the hallway. “Look,” she said. She was right. I was shaking like mad, head going all over the place on my fucking neck like a bobblehead that someone just slapped. I was trembling violently all over.
“I think you need to go to the hospital,” she said. “Nooooo, no, no, no, no. No. I’m fine. It’s just, uh, coffee. I had a lot of coffee this morning and you know too much makes me jittery. Plus, uh, my arm, shaky arm. Pinched nerve. I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Christ, I just wanted to fucking drink. I don’t know how I knew but I knew that, somehow, the shaking would subside once I had a drink or 6.
As happy as I was to see her, I wanted her to be gone then. I wanted to dash out to the local shop, get some booze, come back and get wankered. Crank up the PC speakers to max and warble along to cheese like Hooked On A Feeling, the Piña Colada Song, Kokomo. Gorgonzola like that.
Even though I was sat down and otherwise not doing anything, my heart stated beating faster and heavier, I was dripping with sweat in the cool apartment, and I was breathing in short, rapid, shallow gasps. The ex kept pushing me to let her take me to the hospital, and I kept declining and trying to change the subject. Eventually she got fed up and said if I wasn’t going to let her take me to the ER we should compromise and she’d call an ambulance. They could check me out and if they determined I needed to go then I would go, if not then I wouldn’t and she’d just leave it be. I thought well I’m not dying or anything so this should be an easy one.
Ambulance came out and the ex let the EMT into the apartment. EMT asked me what my symptoms were, when they started, how I was feeling etc. She asked if I’d been drinking that day and I said no which was, technically, the truth. The EMT checked my heart rate, blood pressure, breathing. She shrugged they were a little elevated but nothing especially concerning, and I could go to the hospital with them if I wanted more extensive testing but otherwise I didn’t appear to need hospitalization. I declined, thanked the EMT for coming out, and started thinking of how to get the ex out as well so I could get my day drinking on.
But despite the ‘compromise’ the ex proposed earlier she said she was still concerned and I should have gone to the ER with the ambulance. She wouldn’t be leaving any time soon, I realized, so I agreed to get it over and done with just to get her out of my hair. I know she was acting with good intentions, and she meant well, but I just wanted to be alone and drunk and no longer feeling…whatever this was that was happening to me.
When we got to the hospital the doctor didn’t beat around the bush and went right to asking me about my drinking. I decided to be honest and told her I was on a fifth a day, and a little bit more besides.
Her entire demeanor changed then. She went from polite yet rushed and perfunctory, to dripping with contempt and scorn, telling me what was happening to me was only going to get worse (strangely, she never actually told me I was going through withdrawals) and that if I didn’t stop drinking soon the habit would kill me. She gave me a pill and said it would make me feel a little better. She never said what it was, so I don’t know if it was a benzo or some kind of prescription painkiller, but I was still shaking so badly I couldn’t lift the medicine cup up to my lips and ended up shaking the water around everywhere. I had to get the nurse to put the pill in my mouth and then tip water into my gob from the cup.
Doc left me in a room, unsure of what would happen next, before a nurse came along and discharged me.
Linked up with the ex in the waiting room. “Well? What is it? Did they say what’s wrong?” “They weren’t sure, said it was dehydration, maybe a viral infection. They just gave me some painkillers, said I’m good to go, and should come back if my symptoms get worse.” She drove me home, I thanked her for stopping by, for her concern, and for taking me to the hospital. Then, when I was absolutely certain she was gone, practically sprint-wobbled my way to the local shop for my fix.
It’s crazy, looking back, I had no idea what was happening to me then, and now WDs are such a common thing for me these days that I don’t really sweat it anymore. Just clench the butthole and embrace the suck.
» Posted By Thompson On 22/December/2025 @ 1:22 am
Good luck with the blood work, John. One never knows what one might find, or what one pain might lead to. When I got pancreatitis back at the start of 2016 it started with a dull ache in my lower left abdomen, like a bruise that’s sensitive to the touch. First few big gulps of breakfast vodka mixer I immediately spewed up. I didn’t feel ropey or queasy or anything; I felt fine. But as soon as I swallowed a mouthful, a handful of seconds later it was immediately all vomited back up. If I drank even a half cup of water that came back up too. I thought maybe I had a stomach bug or something, and the abdominal sensitivity was from banging into something at work and not remembering it because I was so busy at the time.
It was only by having sips, of water or vodka mixer, I was able to keep anything down.
As my work day progressed I rapidly declined. The dull abdominal ache turned into one of the worst pains I have ever felt, like a saw slowly going in and out of my pancreas. It was agony. I turned fish belly white and was dripping with sweat, shuffling off to the toilets, holding my arm close to the painful area, to spew. Most of my workmates knew something was up and I had a bunch of people asking if I was ok or saying I looked unwell.
I thought, I hoped, I’d break through and eventually feel better, but I only felt worse. In the end my work wife had to trick me into a mutual friend’s car (“I feel like we don’t hang as much as we used to, Thompson. Let’s all go for a ride!”) before they drove me to the hospital, because I’d said earlier I didn’t want to go.
When the nurse said she had to search my backpack in case I had drugs or alcohol I was nervous about what she’d do/say about the remains of the handle in my bag, but the fates intervened and she was called away before she opened my backpack, and she just stuffed it in a locker beside my bed without checking it.
Had like a three day stay. Banana bag, no food, no water. Sweet, sweet, morphine.
Hospital waived the bill because I was homeless, and some church people put me up in a hotel for the weekend as well as gave me like $200 worth of grocery store gift cards. I was sober for maybe a couple of days before I was back on the vodka and back on the streets.
About halfway through that year I started puking heavily one night and I was worried it was pancreatitis again. Scared me right into dropping vodka as my beverage of choice. I maintained on beer almost exclusively for maybe 8-9 months before the vodka gradually crept back in and took over.
» Posted By Thompson On 17/December/2025 @ 11:09 pm
Good to see you forsaking food for drink, John. Where there is food there is trouble. A mouse, or some mice, have gotten into what I thought was a secure food store and turned it into a sampler platter.
I haven’t had rodent problems for ages, maybe since spring. My faithful cat, Morgoth the Third, caught a mouse in the kitchen at the start of October and I thought it was a rare one-off.
I’d been hearing weird noises here and there throughout the apartment but dismissed it as the noisy neighbors in the adjoining unit. They are loud as hell, and the acoustics in my apartment are weird – even though their unit is to my left (when I’m sat my desk), I’ll hear stuff they’re doing, like turning squeaky taps, to my right.
But I heard some rustling coming from my kitchen, like someone crinkling a plastic shopping bag, and I knew it wasn’t the neighbors. The sound was too light and quiet to penetrate the wall we share. I thought it was Morgoth the Third (my trusty feline companion) playing around in the kitchen but when I turned to call him I found he was in loaf form on the ground next to my chair, seemingly uninterested in the noise coming from the kitchen.
I crept into the kitchen thinking if it’s a mouse or rat in there they’d have heard me coming and fled before I even saw them. I picked up a bag of potatoes that were on the floor of an open-door cupboard and heard a loud-ass squeak. I was so surprised I involuntarily took a step back. There I saw, where the potatoes had been lying, mouse shit. Like a lot of mouse shit. The bag had several holes in it and I didn’t need to open it up to see several potatoes had bite marks in them.
I had a bad feeling then and got on my haunches to check other things in the cupboard. Sure enough it, or they, had been at almost everything. Box of pasta with a whole corner chewed off and half the contents missing. Big packet of stir fry noodles with the plastic wrapping torn open and chunks chewed out. Bag of rice opened and mouse turds visibly intermingling with the grains. Packet of instant mash that was totally devoured. Everything I moved I found it was on, or surrounded by, mouse shit. They had been at this for a while. The only things not touched were canned or jarred goods.
I had to throw most of it out. Food that would have tided me over for at least two weeks, all spoiled. With no more food stamps and food prices rising that shit was a devastating blow. Normally I would have tried to salvage what I could, but all the mouse shit everywhere, and stuff like the potatoes lying in it for God knows how long, I didn’t want to fuck around with foodborne illness or plague, especially since my medicaid was cut off along with the food stamps. The crowning turd on that (literal) shit pile is one of the last items I took out to examine was a fairly robust bag of buckwheat that the ex had bought for reasons I can’t remember now. It looked intact to me but as I made to lift it out it was partially stuck down by something, some molasses that had oozed out of a jar, and I guess because the mouse/mice had gotten into the bag and I couldn’t see it, the bag just fucking split open, showering buckwheat everywhere across the cupboard and kitchen floor.
I busted out the vacuum cleaner to get it out of there (terrifying Morgoth the Third – my cat – in the process) only to find…the fucking thing was broke. End result: because I couldn’t find my dustpan and the only broom I have is too long and unwieldy to fit in the cupboard, I had to get on my knees and brush out the buckwheat/mouse turd combo with my bare hands, scoop it up, and bin it. Even dousing my hands with bleach and scrubbing like a fiend I still felt unclean.
In other news, I’ve been sick as a dog again. I think I’ve caught that superflu going around, since I have to bus everywhere and I’m surrounded by coughing and sneezing people. High fever, shivers, cold sweats, muscle pain, red, burning, eyes. My body tells my brain we’re freezing cold one minute and then intolerably hot the next. Straight up not having a good time.
» Posted By Thompson On 16/December/2025 @ 4:51 pm
I understand how you feel old, John, because oy vey what a day.
Back to involuntary detox for being a broke bitch and the WDs have been rough. I’ve only been on lite beer with the occasional mouthwash thrown in, and it’s been worse than going cold turkey off months-long vodka benders in the past.
Woke up this morning feeling relatively fine, thinking I must have properly tapered off over the weekend and the suffering wouldn’t be too bad. But instead the symptoms came in disturbingly quickly over the course of the morning.
I suppose I should have paid heed like two or three weeks ago when I went for an AM booze run. WDs came on unusually quickly then too. Maybe 4 hours since last drink and I had a racing heart, sheeted in sweat, a bit wobbly. When I got to the gas station I had to use both hands to steady my debit card to go into the reader, and I was visibly struggling with typing my PIN. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it, as my fingers kept mashing two or more buttons, and considered for a moment asking the teller to type it in for me. There was a line behind me and people would have seen there was something clearly wrong with me, which ramped my anxiety right the fuck up and made my shaking worse.
I was able to make the purchase, though, and beat it the fuck out of there, feeling infinitely better not being a withdrawing alcoholic making a spectacle at a gas station. The walk home would make up for it though. On the final leg of the trip the streets were suddenly full of people: dog-walkers, joggers, cyclists, people out for a morning stroll. I almost always go to that store very late at night, and I’d forgotten the streets around my place are thronged with people in the AM, taking advantage of the cooler mornings to walk their dogs or get some exercise in.
My shaking gets worse when other people are around and I feel like they’re looking at and judging me. It’s like an anxiety negative feedback loop. That’s why I try not to leave the house when I’m withdrawing. I can’t do what some people here do and just head right into work on a Monday after a weekend of smashing the vodka. I’d be a mewling, quivering, puddle on the floor with other people around, like in an office environment. Walking past all those people that morning was a struggle. As they came closer to passing me I could feel my legs getting so wobbly I thought a few times I was going to topple over and must have appeared to be walking in a jerky, robotic, fashion. My heart rate spiked and I was periodically gasping like a fish because I felt like I wasn’t drawing in enough air as someone passed.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve had shakes that bad, but today beats that.
As with the prior episode, the symptoms came on fairly quickly, and the worst one was the shaking. As I said, I try not to leave the house when withdrawing, to help with the anxiety, and unlike some stories here my shakes at home are normally reasonably manageable; some mild trembling if I’m doing something like chopping food or (dry) shaving, but I can still pick up small objects on the first go and roll my cigarettes.
Today I couldn’t even do the latter. The first couple of breakfast smokes I rolled came out just fine, then I felt the trembling quickly increase so I had to focus and try and steady my hands. Then I accidentally ripped in two my first cigarette. My hands were shaking so badly trying to delicately roll the paper over that trying to steady my hands provoked some overcompensation in brain signals, I guess, and I just tore the thing in twain, like the Hulk or some shit.
Damn it, just have to try again. I jerked and dumped all the tobacco over myself and the porch. I had a sip of water and gave it another go; I crushed it to pieces in my thrashing fingers. Again and again I tried to make it work. I was getting frustrated with my total inability to simply roll a fuckin cigarette. Even the two times I managed get one to 90% and I brought it up to my lips to lick the gum line, my head and neck were shaking too, and I ended up either biting into the paper or applying so much slobber the paper fell apart in my hands. It was only something like a couple of hours from being able to roll my smokes ok to being completely unable to.
I couldn’t keep doing that. I needed to make the tobacco and papers last. I don’t have the money to go out and buy more, and the rate I was destroying papers and tossing tobacco around I’d be out sooner rather than later.
I had an idea then. I remembered the ex had bought a couple of weed pipes last year, when she was trying to sell me on the idea she could cure her alcoholism if she got into weed. Those throwaway ones you see at smoke shops everywhere; glass, about 3″ long. Probably cost her like a couple of bucks for each and she just left them here. I could use one as an improvised tobacco pipe. No rolling involved, just pack the bowl, and no risk of wasted papers. Genius.
Results were…mixed. My hands, arms, neck, and head were still shaking like mad which made trying to hold the pipe steady in my mouth, while aligning the lighter flame with the bowl, an exercise in frustration. Sometimes I could feel the glass of the pipe clattering against my teeth, sometimes I’d abruptly jerk and toss the tobacco in the bowl everywhere. Lighting the thing was a bitch; I’d twitch and jam the lighter into the tobacco, it was so small I had to hold the lighter upside down which got me a burn blister right at the tip of my thumb that hurts whenever I use a lighter. Even when I was able to successfully light the tobacco, the bowl’s capacity is so small I got through it in 4 quick puffs or so, meaning I had to repeat the process all over again constantly.
I noticed my neighbor had opened his living room blinds. His unit is perpendicular to mine and he can see most of the yard from it. Depending on where he’s stood he could technically also see me sat down, smoking. I wonder if he glanced out of his window, saw me struggling with the pipe, and the way I was trying to light it, and assumed it was crack or meth I was smoking. He probably thinks I’m a mentalist anyway from all the times he might have seen me walk through the front gate with the ex, freshly-acquired booze openly in hand, or the recycling bin suddenly filling up halfway with empties one weekend. Even if he’s not actively snooping on me he would have seen me frequently walking past his window, on the way to/from the booze shop, looking like a crazy homeless person.
I spend a lot of the day sat outside, not only to try and roll cigs and get the pipe working, but to try and get in a better headspace. The anxiety and depression over my job/housing/bills situation were kicking my ass, and I needed something to help me relax. I thought if I could get a little relaxed, not worry so much, maybe the shaking (and other symptoms) would abate a little. In addition to not leaving the house when withdrawing, I generally try to avoid chores, obligations, responsibilities etc. I don’t even like talking on the phone to people. Clear my schedule, as it were. Just chill, rest, and relax. I’ve always thought that’s gone some way towards making my home detoxes somewhat less unpleasant than some of the horror stories I hear here. I also smoke like someone in rehab when I’m detoxing, so my inability to roll cigs and my struggle with the pipe were making it frustratingly difficult to get my nicotine comfort that normally helped me through WDs.
It was an unusually windy day today. Howling gusts of wind coming and going for hours, kicking up dirt and sand everywhere. I was shakily getting up out of my porch chair to go top up my water when a strong blast of wind popped the top half off my porch lattice panel out of its seating. Fuckin thing smacked into me and I was so weak and shaky I fell back down onto my ass in my chair. My first thought was eh, just leave it for now. I was in no shape to be doing maintenance work and I figured the neighbor wouldn’t care if I left it like that for a few hours. But I felt strangely exposed with the neighbors, and passersby, having an unobstructed glimpse of my porch. Truth be told I was also embarrassed about people seeing the absolute state of my porch and all the ex’s crap accumulated there. I decided to try and fix it then; I didn’t want people thinking this place looks even more like a crack house.
It took some work. Drunk or totally sober I can easily lift up one of those panels with ease. But in my enervated state I struggled. I could see my arms violently wobbling with the effort of trying to lift one above shoulder height. I was sweating like the Jordan Peele meme. To make matters worse the wind was still gusting, so I couldn’t just let the panel sit on top of the bottom one or even the lightest breeze would dislodge it again. I had to work quickly, leaning against each panel while I threaded zip-ties together – no drill bit, screws, or nails available – to secure the panels. No easy feat when your shakes are especially aggravated by trying to use fine motor skills. I thought of my neighbor again, wondering if he heard the crash of the panel and was watching me try to fix the situation. I must have looked a state, shirt darkening with massive patches of sweat, hair slick to my head with it; visibly shaking like I had Parkinson’s. But I managed to get everything tied down and I felt strangely accomplished.
Literally as soon as I finished and stepped away from the front of the lattice to walk back around into the porch, I felt a curious sensation of an imminent pass out. Like my legs were a microsecond away from just giving out under me and I’d fall over, like a doll with its strings cut, and I’d black out for a moment. That would really have put on a show for the neighbors. I think it was from the exertion of getting things quickly fixed, and my body and brain obviously being in a fucked up state. I have actually fainted once before in my life, and that was before I was even a crippled alkie, so that’s how I knew the feeling. But after a second the feeling passed and I went and sat down to treat myself to some cold water and yet another failed attempt at rolling a cigarette.
Had a bit of an oops moment later. I waited until early evening (when perpendicular neighbor’s blinds were shut) to try and take out a few empties. The fruit flies are becoming annoying as fuck and I’m sick of having to dodge around cases of beer littering the place from weeks or months ago. I pick up three cases and pinch them between the fingers of one hand as I step out to go throw them in the recycling bin.
Just as I’m about halfway there I see the wife/girlfriend of the family in the unit next to me pull into the driveway. Too late for me to about-face without looking weird, and my cases of Natural Light/Ice are clearly illuminated in the headlights of her car. I guess now she/they know I’m the one half-filling the recycling bins with empties from time to time. I try not to give her an embarrassed sideways glance as I walk out to the bins. They’ve been living there for like 7 months or something and we’ve not so much as exchanged a “hi” despite seeing each other virtually every day. Not trying to be rude or anything, I just hate awkward social interaction with strangers, withdrawals or no.
I dither at the bins, a few yards away from her vehicle. Wobbling intensifies. I’m trying to take my time so I neither have to go past her vehicle and blank her again, or end up walking beside her for a forced social interaction. My shaky hand drops one of the cases on the ground and empty beer cans spill out. Just a trifle embarrassing. I’m not sure I can lean over to pick up the cans without falling over so have to get on my knees to put the cans back into the case. I hear a car door open behind me and foot steps heading in the opposite direction. At least she didn’t stop to chat. I can safely go back home now, at least.
The last ‘gift’ my shakes have given me is it took me fucking ages to write this. I started last night and now it’s 5:40 in the morning. I don’t think I’ll be getting much, if any, sleep thanks to WD insomnia.
I still can’t roll a cigarette, and I’m not even 70 yet like you, John. Cheers?
» Posted By Thompson On 06/September/2025 @ 3:44 am
Small wins are better than no wins, John.
I was running out of toilet paper, like on the very last dregs, and I don’t exactly have the funds for more. Then I discovered a building site down the road and, on a trek to and from the local boozery one night, found they left untouched rolls of tp outside their porta potty. It was pitch black and there was no one around so I helped myself to a couple of rolls. I’d say I feel slightly guilty about it but…I don’t.
» Posted By Thompson On 02/June/2025 @ 2:05 am
It’s nice to see you kissing and cuddling like anything but an asshole, John. As for me, my asshole is a spiteful, drunken, asshole. When I’m sober I get a clear sense of timing for needing a shit, like I can feel the progression – “I could probably do one now if I forced it”, “I don’t need to go right now, but I could if I wanted”, “ok, we’re now in the need territory but I can comfortably hold it for like a couple of hours or so”, and finally “go poop, we need to poop.”
But when I’m in the drink I get none of that. No sense of progression on the urgency. Just a sudden pressure in my ass and “shitting in 10, 9, 8, 7….” and I’m dashing for the throne to spread the cheeks.
First time in my beer-areer disaster struck, I was about a quarter of the way to the local Walmart on a last-minute booze run for a drunkenly mate and I. Out of the blue I get the aforementioned ass pressure and inexorable countdown. There was absolutely nowhere I could let rip – there were apartment complexes all around, it was a busy road, and there were some people still walking the streets. While I agonized over what to do, my ass, like time, waits for no man and as I stood there paralyzed by indecision the brown eye opened up and filled the seat of my jeans with warm, fluffy, peanut butter-like shite. I calculated I didn’t have the time to make it back to my mate’s for a shower and change of clothes (I was walking) before cutoff time, so just penguin-walked it the rest of the way to Walmart, some 40 minutes away, with gradually cooling shit caressing my cheeks with every step.
When I got there I beelined straight for the toilets, wiped down as best as I could and – peak drunken logic for me – not wanting to stink out the bathroom by throwing my shit-filled boxers into the trash I tried to flush them down the toilet and ended up blocking it. Water went right up to the rim of the bowl, after multiple flushes, and I could see my soiled boxers sucked part way down the pipes, gently undulating like a sea anemone in hell.
It’s been 7 years, but I still sometimes think about that and feel sorry for the poor Walmart employee who would have had to fish my boxers out of the toilet and clean up the mess I left.
Still, mission accomplished. Got the handle for my mate and I and had a relatively more relaxed walk back home. Threw my jeans straight in the trash bin outside and jumped right into the shower for a thorough scrub down. Bonus: my mate passed out after only like 2 drinks so I didn’t have to worry about rationing the vodka between two boozcunts because I knew he’d be getting some more the next day anyway.
These are my twilight years. Won’t someone fix the light?
Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 31/May/2025 @ 2:04 am
It’s weird when you think like in 50 years time most of us will be dead, and the Internet will be filled with dormant social media accounts of all these dead people. Your Twitter account, with its plethora of defunct links to Brazilian fart porn. Your Facebook profile, last post was a cat meme from the 17th of April, 2041. 800 friends, all dead. Ghosts on a ghost’s friend list.
Going through people’s social media history, following their triumphs and tragedies, it’s like you’re treading carefully through a mausoleum, each post and comment a digital relic of the past. Then you get to the end of the tour and…that’s it. It just ends. No epilogue. Whatever happened to them?
» Posted By Thompson On 29/May/2025 @ 4:38 am
I think throwing up on the floor in my place right now would be an improvement from the current state of affairs, John. A quick look around and it’s swarms of fruit flies, dead mice inside my shoes, toilet looking like the worst toilet in Scotland, both sinks piled high with months-old dirty dishes, pots of food on the stove crawling with maggots because I forgot to put the food away or chuck it out weeks ago, every inch of the kitchen counters covered in empties and food packaging, dead cockroaches littered here and there because I couldn’t be bothered disposing of them after killing them, bed sheet and pillow cover stained yellow/brown from alco-sweats and avoiding showers for 6+ weeks, and crusty cum socks strewn across the computer desk.
There’s currently some semi-dessicated shrimp on my windowsill, outside, that I set out months ago to try and bait the rat trap, but the rat just decided to fuck off instead (maybe he has a shellfish allergy).
Even worse is my sex drive. My libido has gone down the toilet. I have little interest in sex anymore. I can muster the enthusiasm for maybe the first month, with a new partner, but I think it’s just the novelty that excites me. After that my enthusiasm starts to wane and if she doesn’t initiate I can happily go months without a shag.
Add to that decades of boozing and smoking, the alco-anxiety and being a man in his 40s, the whisky dick is more of an occupational hazard now than when I was a 20-something and went home with a girl after a night out.
I’ve partially given up on the idea of settling down in a long-term relationship, after the ex, because if she’s wanting sex (and good sex at that) frequently…she’s not getting that from me.
But still, John, worse places to throw up on/in than a floor or toilet. I had a really fucking bad spew earlier. Drink immediately went down my throat the wrong way and you know when you get that horrible sensation that fluid is going into your windpipe and you start hacking and coughing and spluttering, all red-faced and wide-eyed? Well that triggered an impromptu puke from me. Had no vessels at hand to receive the vom, I wasn’t going to puke into the mostly-full cup I’d drank from, and I knew I wouldn’t make it to the bathroom, so grabbed the only thing to hand drunk-brain thought I could use – the cum sock on my computer desk. Stretched that fucker like a gaping anus and heaved into it. Surprisingly little vomit seeped out before I was able to chuck it into the shower basin. A testament, I guess, to Asics and how well-crafted their socks are.
I think drawing the line at living creatures and even people is a respectable thing to do. I for one would never throw up on my cat, Morgoth the Third .
» Posted By Thompson On 09/February/2025 @ 3:01 am
How are those kids’ bowel movements with all that candy they consume, John? When I was a kid I lived off candy and recall the first time I got clogged up good and solid. I was at a friend’s house, we’d been eating shitty food all weekend. There was a weird, lumpy feeling in my lower bowel that kinda concerned me. I finally had the urge to shit, so I go into the bathroom and sit down.
I fart a little bit, and I feel the lump shift positions, as if gravity and intestinal peristalsis was finally kicking in. I feel this turd get in line and start peeking. It immediately stops on the threshold and refuses to move.
I am concerned. I’ve had to grunt and strain before, but in this instance, after 5 minutes of grunting and pushing, this turd hasn’t moved at all, and my butthole is starting to get fatigued. I’ve tried rocking back and forth, rocking side to side, doing my patented “stir” move around the rim, and I finally think to myself, “I should check the texture,” so I reach back and give the turtlehead a quick rub.
It was like running my fingertips over the disc of an angle grinder. It was dry and grainy and solid as fuck. I regret the shitty diet I’ve been consuming.
I redouble my grunting and straining efforts, adding in a new move: grabbing one buttcheek and pulling it in the hopes that it stretches the cornhole, and finally…
I feel some movement begin to occur, and this turd finally starts moving. I swear to you that I heard this turd scraping as it squeezed out of my butthole. At the moment that its main girth breached, my butthole began retracting and, I literally shot this turd into the toilet with a gusty shotgun-blast of a fart. I swear to you, this turd “clinked” into the bowl.
I felt a sense of relief, pride, and deliverance I can only describe as spiritual. I stand up to see the child of my loins and to make sure there isn’t an umbilical cord to cut. I was only like 9 or 10 years old, and this turd was the size of a Coke can, and fucking muscular and veiny as a roided-out bodybuilder on stage. I wipe and there’s nothing. This turd was solid as fuck.
It wouldn’t flush. I had to poke it with the plunger until it broke into smaller pieces.
It’s rare that I eat candy these days. I’m a bit too salty now at my age.
» Posted By Thompson On 13/December/2024 @ 6:00 pm
That Proclaimers song brings back memories of the time I went out with the work crew for drinks and Indian food. I like my food – Indian or otherwise – super spicy, and I got my customary vindaloo or phaal curry, and ate other shit like onion bhajis and keema naan.
I got wasted pretty quickly because I’d been hitting the mouthwash hard in the offcie bathrooms beforehand and I wasn’t yet used to balancing social drinking with feeding the thirst. Took my happy ass off home relatively early, when the world started spinning and the coworkers wanted to carry on, sipping pints in old man bars and talking about their favorite pro-wrestlers while that Proclaimers song was seemingly on repeat.
Got home maybe an hour and a half after eating, get up to my room, and immediately spew into the sink in my bedroom. There’s chunks of chicken and shrimp, flecks of herbs, bits of rice, pieces of naan, curry sauce mixed in with bile, beer, vodka, and luminescent mouthwash foam. All that good stuff. I was fading fast and in no condition for clean up so just flopped into bed, fully dressed, immediately after.
Woke up the next morning to find the sink drain clogged with the congealed remains of my puke from the night before. My bedroom fucking reeked to high heaven of half-digested Indian food and vomit for what seemed like a month after. Even today just thinking about that song I can still smell that miasma.
Cheers for the trip down memory lane, John!
» Posted By Thompson On 22/November/2024 @ 6:35 pm
Glad to see you have your traditions and routines, John. I like to keep mine simple. Wake up. Have a glass of water or two for hydration. Smoke on the porch and let Morgoth the Third out. Have a drink or six. Pass out. Wake up, drink some more. Pass out again. Wake up. Drink some more, but there’s enough alcohol in my system now that I don’t need to head straight off to bed. Sponge out in front of the computer for hours. Head to the local gas station for booze, after sunset. Carry on drinking until I’m nodding off and my eyelids are closing at my desk. Take myself off to bed to sleep for the night. Rinse and repeat.
Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 10/November/2024 @ 5:05 pm
Munching on those sweet, tender loins
I recommend switching to mouthwash for a bit to cut down on those outrageous spending costs, John. The buzz is good and you don’t have to be concerned as much about not having brushed your teeth in weeks. I started on it back in 2019. I was at the homeless vets camp where I met the ex and had ostensibly sobered up, but I was secretly getting my fix via two big bottles of mouthwash every few days. By that point my only experience with it was as a teenager, when a friend and I were desperate for a buzz and tried mouthwash/soda mixers.
Sometimes I’ll swill it around my mouth, but most of the time it bypasses the teeth and goes straight down the throat. When you’re drinking mouthwash you really don’t want the taste to linger.
» Posted By Thompson On 30/October/2024 @ 7:59 pm
That Jeepney ride looks very uncomfrotable, John, and reminds me of an abscess I once had. I do not recommend abscesses. I got one in 2014. Roof of my mouth. Fucker swelled up to like half the size of a ping pong ball. Had difficulty eating because food would push into it and it would hurt. I could always feel it on my tongue.
Finally got sick of the fucking thing so one night I sterilized my pocket knife by holding it on an open flame, doused it with rubbing alcohol, and lanced the fucker. Like Satan’s piñata it burst and jizzed pus all over my tongue/mouth. Absolutely foul taste (and smell). Had to gargle with precious vodka just to swill it out.
» Posted By Thompson On 28/October/2024 @ 4:51 pm
I hope you don’t lose your way during that typhoon of yours, John. Getting lost when you’re drunk is NOT fun.
Early 2015 I’d not even been working a full month when I got sent home from work (my first job where I was admonished for not shaving) for being drunk. Decided to walk home, which I’d done precisely once before, but stopped into a liquor store to get more fuel for the ~2 hour walk back. Stopped into a back alley to lube up and ended up passing out for not pacing myself. Woke up hours later, after sunset, to find my phone had died and I was totally lost in what was effectively a ‘foreign’ city.
Got caught up in a thunderstorm (no jacket or umbrella). Walked through a field of mud that sucked off my new work shoes my stepmother had gotten me a few weeks earlier, for the Christmas I managed to polish off two bottles of whiskey in one sitting. At one point my passport fell out of my pocket and I ended up crawling on my hands and knees in the mud, in the dark, looking for it. I was lucky with the passport because I noticed it wasn’t in my pocket not long after it fell out. And because it’s light and has some waterproofing it stayed on the surface of the mud. It’s all tattered and dog-eared now. Only expired like last November.
Ended up shoeless and I couldn’t find the shoes. As the rain got heavier and the mud thicker they kept popping off, and even though I was stepping back into them the mud was sucking them off with every other step. Then I slipped and almost went on my ass, and when I got my bearings I couldn’t feel where one shoe had been lost. Then the other came off. I only had wet socks on for the rest of the journey home.
Shoeless and completely piss wet through from the rain, I then managed to fall over a low wooden barrier, going full shrimp and just remaining there because drunk and “fuck it”. A few cars did actually stop with drivers calling out asking if I was ok. Silent thumbs up sent them on their way.
Finally managed to extricate myself and tried to wave down passing cars for directions. I lucked out with this young stoner kid who offered to drive me home. I remember profusely apologizing I was soaking his passenger seat with my soggy ass, but he was cool as hell. Offered me some of his joint he had in the ash tray. I remember a string of spit like pizza cheese leading from my mouth to the spliff when I gave it back to him but again, he didn’t seem to give two toots about it.
Finally got to the new housing development where I lived with my brother, one of those cookie-cutter HOA affairs where all the houses look the same, and staggered home.
Only when I got ‘home’ the door was locked up and my key wouldn’t work. I thought my brother had locked me out because he’d somehow found out I got sent home from work and he was pissed about it. After aggressively trying the lock some more I hammered on the door and I heard a muffled voice behind it ask “who are you?! What do you want?!” I laughed. Actually laughed. I thought my brother was being a dick and playing a prank on me, pretending not to know me.
“It’s me, Thompson, come on man open the door.”
“Who? I don’t know any Thompson.”
Sigh.
“It’s meeee, THOMPSON.”
“I don’t know any Thompson!”
Ffs.
“Ok, it’s your b-r-o-t-h-e-r, Thompson!”
“I don’t have a brother, and I don’t know any Thompsons!”
It was only then that I realized my ‘brother’ didn’t sound quite right, and in the porch light of the home my eyes fixed on the home number plaque. It was a different number from my brother’s house. Ohhhhh fuuuuck.
“Shiiiiiit, sorry man. Wrong house, wrong house. I thought this was my brother’s house. Sorry!” Sheepishly backed out of view of the peephole in the door, hands held up in placation.
My brother’s house was actually two or three streets down, and my key worked as soon as I plugged it into the lock. As anticipated, he was pissed. When he didn’t hear from me earlier in the day he drove to my workplace to pick me up, and my dickhead boss told him he’d sent me home, and why.
He threatened to break my legs for being a mess and basically kicked me out, where I went up north to the Bay Area to live with cousins for a while, and the rest is history.
Every now and then I think about hammering on that stranger’s door. At the time I didn’t think much of it; I was still thinking more like jolly drunk than a rational, smart drunk, and to me it was at worst an annoying, but understandable, mix-up. Since then I’ve read about people like Andrew De Vries, Yoshihiro Hattori, and Renisha McBride, who were shot to death for.going to the wrong door, and I think that could have been me.
» Posted By Thompson On 25/October/2024 @ 5:38 pm
I assume you Hashers just let loose and pee wherever when you’re out in the wild like that, John. At my last job I used to hide out in the toilets quite a bit just to kill time. Maybe drink a shooter or three in there, eat some snacks, watch some Internet porn. I used to spend so long in there the motion sensor lights would cut out and I’d have to do this dance on the throne, thrashing my arms and legs around to try and catch one of the sensors. Sometimes it just didn’t work so I gave up and sat there in the dark. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that the lights would only come on again when someone else came into the bathroom. 95% of the time I detected a minute pause; a falter in footsteps, a sharp intake of breath. They must have seen my feet under the stall door and thought wtf was he just sat here in the darkness? Yes, yes I was. Now do your business and go.
If anyone questioned me about my bathroom breaks I know my anxiety would be through the roof, as I’d clearly established a pattern and was visibly going to the toilet at a questionable rate. I’m always paranoid about that because years earlier I was working a retail job and passed out in the bathroom, woke up like 20 seconds before my supervisor – who was heading into the men’s room specifically to bust me – caught me asleep on the toilet.
» Posted By Thompson On 23/October/2024 @ 12:59 pm
I can understand you and Swan being unable to swim, John. I’m totally non-functional when drinking. I have enough energy and coordination to head to the liquor store and back, and maybe make some food, and that’s about the limit of stuff I can accomplish for the day.
The ex was one of those energized people. Alcohol was like fucking crack or meth for her. I’d be flagging and want to lie down for a pass out, she’d suddenly want to do all the housework, all at once. Unlike us crippled boozehounds I can see her willingly diving into that pool and splashing around just to complain later about how the water wasn’t too her liking, the tiles were slimy, she tasted “Mex-urine” in the water etc.
» Posted By Thompson On 18/October/2024 @ 2:30 am
It’s good to hear that your ticker is still ticking, John. In fact, your various health woes made me take a good look at myself and see what was currently ailing me. So far I’ve got:
– Vision problems the last few months. Like I’ve rapidly become…not exactly far-sighted, but text has to be a certain sweet spot away from my eyes before it’s legible. I get periods of colorless blobs/blurs in my vision as well.
– Hearing problems. Someone can be talking at ‘normal’ volume and I can barely make out what they’re saying. Last year I went to get takeout with the ex and could not hear a word the woman on the register was saying, despite her only being like 2-3 feet away. I was too embarrassed to say anything.
– Alcorexia. Occupational hazard for drunks like us, John. I have no appetite when on an extended bender. How you manage to wolf down all that non-Indian food every day is beyond me, but I never see you post pics of breakfasts so I guess you are going most of the day filled with booze and not food..
– Libido problems. I’m rarely interested in sex anymore. I thought it might be an age/testosterone thing so I had my t-levels checked a couple of years ago and they’re actually above average for men my age.
– Memory lapses. The brain fog of withdrawal and the initial confusion of sobriety is both longer and stronger. I find myself missing more words when typing out sentences and forgetting names of people.
– Heart/respiratory problems. I get severe palpitations even when drinking, and sometimes feel certain it’s an imminent heart attack from the pressure in my chest. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe very well and have to contort my body just so and take massive breaths to get any kind of relief.
– Random sharts, frequent bed wetting, and horrendous skid marks pants even when it felt like my sphincter was doing its jog.
There’s no doubt more but all this focus on myself reminds me I need to drink to forget. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 11/October/2024 @ 8:23 pm
It looks like some of those kids could use aftershave and deodorant instead of candy, John. I used to sometimes wear cheap and nasty cologne to hide the smell of booze. I mean like shitty Dollar Store stuff that smells like rubbing alcohol; Brït, Channel for Men, Jewp, Tommy Pullmyfinger, Calvin Climb. Those terrible/wonderful off-brands no one but 8 year olds and crackheads think smell nice.
I remember back in 2017 I worked at a sports bar and usually did late(r) shifts but one day I had to go in early because the place had won an award from the city or something, so they needed everyone in for a photographer to take pictures of us holding the award.
I struggle with morning shifts even during sober periods, but I’d gone heavy the night before and woke up late. Didn’t have time to gradually get lubed and have a shower, brush my teeth, the whole routine to look, smell, and seem normal etc. Just crushed a few beers as I was rushing, had some shots, washed my face and… had the brilliant idea of emptying the remains of a bottle of cheap ass cologne over my head, to cover the stink of ass and booze. The bottle was like a quarter full.
Dashed out of the house to get a taxi into work before I was (too) late.
Because I was oblivious in my rush, a little bit drunk, and because I have a notoriously poor sense of smell (smoker who grew up in a smoking household), it wasn’t until I was posing for the group photo in-between other staff that it hit me: I fucking reeked of shitty cologne. Like, it was starting to make my eyes water, and I noticed colleagues making faces or turning away for gulps of air between photos. I knew with complete certainty everybody knew it was me – I was late, and I was the only full time male waiter there – but I tried to pretend I didn’t notice anything, even when I spoke to coworkers and my eyes were pooling with moisture.
Think I might have blown my chances with a couple of the barmaids that day.
» Posted By Thompson On 07/October/2024 @ 5:11 pm
I hear you about staying at home all day, John. Sometimes us drunks just need to take a break from the rigors and strains of constantly hunting down booze and just make sure we have enough at home to tide us over till the next day.
In the time since I last posted I haven’t really been up to much. I mean things have happened to me, but I haven’t really done stuff. At least nothing worthy more than getting drunk on extract every day. I was going to switch it up 2-3 days ago by buying mouthwash for my drunk when my dickhead landlord ambushed me at home while I was in full-blown WDs, and my gimpy leg turned into excruciating leg on the walk to the Chevron (and it also rained on the way back, yay) but other than that it’s just been drinking and dealing with the ex.
I finally managed to kick her out. Even threw a suitcase loaded with her puke- and piss-stained clothes out which landed on her leg (which means more accusations of trying to cripple her again). All that said and done, she’s been coming around practically every day. Asking her for a day ‘off’ is like pulling teeth; she throws a tantrum (because the narcissist cannot be told “no”) or manufactures a crisis that necessitates her having to come here, like needing to wash the sheets, or collecting vegan food she has here. We got into a serious argument because she said I was being mean to her and disrespecting her by telling her she couldn’t come around so much. I had to put my foot down and told her we’re not a couple anymore, that I’m not obligated to see her every day, that she needs to respect my boundaries, and that as my ex-girlfriend she’s really quite low down on the list of social priorities, to put it mildly.
I’ve practically given up on the job search. By the time I wake up I have maybe an hour or two to myself before she’s around. I’m hesitant to use the laptop when she’s here – I’m sure she’d find some way of sabotaging what would be a silent browse if I was alone – and I don’t like making phone calls around other people. The days she isn’t here I essentially waste in recharging my ‘social battery’ by getting drunk and indulging in me-time. I tell myself today we’re going to update our resumé and call the agency which is always followed by but first we need a drink or three and then it’s nap time.
We had a spat over that. I told her I wanted more days off, that I needed them to actually get busy with finding a job. She countered I was probably just getting drunk and farting around when she wasn’t there. I mean, she’s not entirely wrong, but I had to explain – mindful of not escalating things into an all-out fight – being around her is literally draining. I’ve got mad social anxiety, and on the rare occasions I socialize (sans alcohol) it takes willpower for me to suffer through it. I need time to recover, to recharge, as it were, and the more I saw of her the more time I needed to ground myself.
I discovered this feeling years ago, even before I was a lush like you, John, when a childhood friend and drinking buddy always wanted to see me after I finished my shift at a job that had, for me, odd hours (1300-2100). I wasn’t averse to seeing him, we were good friends after all, but I found when he left I felt like I had only just finished work, even though I’d already been home for hours. I felt agitated, stressed, tired. I didn’t feel like I’d had any quality relaxation time, despite the fact we usually just sat on my bed, playing Xbox and talking shit.
It was the same sensation with her. Even though we did nothing more strenuous than watching tv – and me cooking for us – every time she left I just felt tired, like I’d finished running a marathon. After Black-Gums Girl (a previous fling) and the complete dissolution of any lingering feelings I might have had for the ex it’s exhausting being around her so much. She didn’t understand, much less accept, that when I tried to explain it to her.
For the most part she had actually been ‘good’. Sometimes the narcissist creeps out, like when she casually dismisses something factual I’ve said, accuses me of having ‘improper’ relations with women (i.e. the female bartender who served me once), commands me to do tasks she can perform herself, or turns a lot of shit into a lowkey competition, but at least there’s no violence or delusional psychosis. Hell, she’s even treated me at times; she’d throw my broke ass some booze money, or she’d pay for my Lyft home after dragging me to the grocery store with her. She even bought me a pair of new shoes – actual Vans, as opposed to the $10 knockoffs I usually wear. I’m under no illusions though that this isn’t affection or friendship; she’s merely buying my time and tolerance. I don’t mind though, as long as it aligns with my interests. To paraphrase Bill The Butcher from Gangs of New York, you gotta pay for the pleasure of my company.
At some point I must have offended her because she called me a “rotten mixed-breed cunt” and said “my mongrel ass is dead if she ever sees me again” but for the life of me the only thing I remember doing was asking her to stop stubbing her ciggies out on my computer desk because she knocked an empty beer can over that landed on Morgoth the Third’s head. Relieved as I was that she’d finally left it was a stark reminder that I’d need to go out at some point and steal some cat food for the kitty.
So that brings us to today. Comfortably on Sprite and extract number 8 at 11:45 in the morning, and I’ve still got enough to tide me over before it’s back to the mouthwash. I’m not really bothered about the ex, I mean, I am in the sense I might have burned bridges with what could have been the source of next month’s rent and booze money, but I’m sure she’ll rear her head again before long. If not, I’ll figure something out. Win-win.
Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 06/September/2024 @ 8:12 pm
Sounds like you have a harem of women in your abode, John. One has always been too many for me. I simply can’t imagine having to deal with a murder of Filipinas as well. I tip my hat to you, sir, even though the ex threw my last hat out the window after she thought I was pouring methylated spritis in her ears to exorcise her “spic demons” while she slept.
I sure wished she was sleeping yesterday. I’m busy mixing some extract with the last drops of rancid orange juice in the carton and warm Sprite while she talks about how the US is doomed and she wants us to move overseas, an idea she’d become fixated on during her time in jail. I’d briefly considered the idea but dismissed it; reading some of your posts here reminds me that at least we have electricity and children who can afford their own candy in the US. Besides, I’m not willing to take the risk we move to a foreign country and then she suddenly gets drunk and kicks me out and/or decides she doesn’t want to be with me anymore, leaving me fucked in a place where I have no idea how the support network operates.
If there’s one thing that consistently irks me about whenever she talks about moving overseas, it’s that she never mentions her kids. She abandoned three of them when they were young, and a fourth she lied about the kid dying. I mean, fair enough it’s not really any of my business as it happened long before her and I were a thing, but it bugs me on a personal level how disinterested she is in getting back in touch with them – the least she could do is ask her kids for some booze money so I don’t have to be stealing bottles of extract from Wal-Mart all the goddamn time. I just can’t imagine someone discarding their children and shrugging “if they want to get in touch with me they know how to contact me.”
I wasn’t trying to be cruel or hurtful, but I must have struck a nerve as the ex started crying. I mean really crying, like wracking sobs and wailing. She keeps repeating to herself she “did the right thing” and her kids would have been so much worse if she stuck around. I don’t really agree with her, but I hold her and try to comfort her as she cries. There is a pungent whiff of onions emanating from her pores and I wonder if it’s another “yeast infection” or if her viscera are finally fermenting within her.
She ends up passing out, after she polishes off the last of the tequila. I am genuinely astounded. I’ve written here before about how alcohol seems to be like an upper for her and the more she drinks the more she wants to do stuff. That she succumbed to a blackout is a dubious boozing milestone for her.
We went out for dinner afterwards. A seafood place. I love seafood; she’s a vegan. I’d asked her multiple times if she really wanted to go, because there wasn’t really anything on the menu for her, but she insisted she wanted to. Why anyone would not regularly eat fish is beyond me; sure I can understand in Asia not eating fish as there is no clean water in places like China, but the health benefits are simply too much to ignore.
We get seated and I suggest she find stuff on the menu she might like. She calls the waiter over and says we’re celebrating. She wants to get me a sampler platter off-menu, and insists money isn’t an issue; “I don’t care if it costs $300 or $1000!” I didn’t realize she was that fucking tanked.
We share a couple of dishes before she suggests we go outside for a cigarette. On the way back she snatches out for my arm. “I can’t walk!” She slurs. JFC. “Should we go home?” I ask, “Are you ok?” She answers in the affirmative and that she just needs me to guide her back to her seat.
We sit back down and she immediately starts talking about how she feels nauseous, and like she’s going to throw up. I ask her again and again if she wants to go to the bathroom, but each time she waves it off. “I’m fine.” I tell her if she thinks she’s going to power vomit it would be best if she went to the bathroom, but again declines my offer to walk her there.
“I’m ok, it’s just my PTSD, this music is triggering me.” I immediately switch off. I don’t doubt PTSD is a thing, and I don’t knock those who suffer from it, but I’ve met so many homeless veterans like the ex, who milk it for attention and sympathy. In particular, her ‘PTSD’ flare ups always coincide with what other people would call ‘being a drunk asshole’. I’m also a little irritated by the fact we passed by the DJ booth on the way out for a cigarette and she expressly said she’s impressed there was a DJ and the music was cool.
Not wanting to gamble on the ex projectile vomiting at the table, I scoff the last of my food and order us a Lyft home. I notice her debit card on the table, half under a napkin, and figure she can lose it. I reach for it and ask her “Honey, your debit card’s there, do you want me to put it in my wal-” she immediately snatched for it. “Don’t touch my fucking debit card. You will have nothing to do with MY money ever again, you thieving cunt!” I normally carry her card in my wallet because she doesn’t have her own purse/wallet.
I tell her I’ve ordered a Lyft and I’m going out for another cigarette to wait for it, and she’s welcome to join me if she wants. She says she’ll join me in just second.
I’m outside and had barely smoked half my cig before the Lyft driver arrived unexpectedly early. I ask him to wait while I go inside to fetch the ex.
I can see her as soon as I step back in and she’s a changed woman. On my way out she had stooped shoulders and was cradling her head over a half empty Black Russian; now, she’s smiling, laughing, and gesticulating wildly with one of the barmen. Anything for male attention.
I tell her the Lyft is here and we need to go. I notice she’d ordered herself a fresh drink and she shotgunned it before she staggered towards the doorway with me. “Wait, I want a cigarette” she says. “The ride home is only like 5 minutes, and the driver is about to leave. Have one when we get home.” “Nah, wanna have one now.” Whatever, I’m not paying a declined ride fee because she wants to smoke, so tell her to get her own ride home as I climb into the Lyft.
She shows up about 30 minutes after I get home, complaining about how I ‘abandoned’ her, what a PoS I am, and how she doesn’t want to be with me anymore.
I remind her I was giving her exactly one chance not to be a drunken fuck up, and her histrionics at the restaurant violated that. I tell her to get her shit and get out. “I paid rent for this place, you can’t throw me out” she smirks. I’m not having any of it, and as she stretches out on the couch, as if to sleep, I grab her arm, hoist her up, and lead her towards the door. “Come on, out you drunken wench.”
She pulls out of my grip and dashes into the kitchen to grab a large knife. “Go ahead, touch me again, see what happens!” She waves it in front of her. I’m not risking her toting a knife around when she’s blasted and advance on her. She takes a tentative swing at my neck. I don’t flinch. “Go for it” I laugh. I lift my chin up, exposing my throat, and spread my arms wide, theatrically. “A murder charge isn’t really going to look well for you, two weeks after getting out of jail.”
“It will if I’m defending myself in a domestic vi-” I lunge then. She has her wits about her and immediately places her knife-hand behind her back. As I struggle to secure her wrist I’m distantly aware of the possibility she can just plunge the fucking thing into my chest. I’m about to headbutt her but the dandruff in her hair could blind me so I hold back on unleashing my true might.
She rakes at my face with her free hand, clawing at my eyes. I can feel the nails breaking skin.. “if you try to slash me-” “I’m…not…going…to…slash…you” I pry the knife out of her hand and throw it into the next room.
“What were you thinking, drawing a weapon on me like that??” I pant. “Out. Just go.” “I’m not going anywhere and you can’t make me!” She sneers. “I can call the police!” I harrumph. “Go ahead!” She laughs and points to the bruise on her arm from yesterday, “I’ve got all the evidence I need that I’m in an abusive relationship, and they’ll take you away! And you know what? I’m going to press charges for my hip you broke!”
(For those not in the know I inadvertently broke her hip last year when she drunkenly attacked me and I pushed her off me)
“What do you want?” I ask her. “I don’t want you here anymore, I don’t want to be with you, and if I’m such a horrible person like you believe, it’s in your best interests to get out of here!” “I’m not going anywhere”, she repeats. “I’m staying until the 31st because I’ve paid rent for this place!” “Is that it?” I ask. I have no intention of leaving her here alone when I go on my next booze run, so she can destroy my laptop, kill the cat, or fuck some Mexican stranger in my bed; “I’ll transfer you the money you paid for this month, $400, and then you should go.” “$400?” She cackles, “No, no, no motherfucker, you owe me $1300 for all the rent I paid when I was in jail!” I don’t have that kind of money and I wouldn’t give her it if I did anyway.
“I’ll transfer you $400 and then you should get gone.” “I’m staying until the 31st, where I go after that is none of your business!”
She then launches into a predictable diatribe about how she doesn’t love me anymore, I’m such a PoS, the sex is bad (she even dances around the idea I raped her), I spend all her money etc. etc. She even says she’s the best I’ll ever get. The narcissist’s mask falls off. I actually giggle at that and can’t resist a twist of the metaphorical knife. I respond to one of her barbs “Yeah, you’re absolutely right, I’ve never been married and I don’t have kids, but you know what – if I did, I wouldn’t abandon them and pat myself on the back for it, you wretched scuzzball.”
3:10AM. She’s passed out in my bed. I’m on the couch. I took a gamble and snuck out earlier to get some more beer with her debit card. I was worried she’d lock the door behind me if she woke and discovered I was gone. There’s a just-opened bottle of tequila outside that she got on her way home. She’s so tanked she didn’t even drink any of it. I’m tempted to just empty it into the grass and replacing it with bleach, in lieu of waking up to her being in a booze-fueled rage again.
We’ll see what happens. Cheers to good living!
» Posted By Thompson On 29/August/2024 @ 7:04 pm
Very glad to hear Kevin is doing okay, John. I know a few older bucks who’ve gotten stents and they’re doing just fine. He should probably avoid American food/products because and switch to food and products from other countries as they tamper with the shit less. And at least he is in hospital, a place of refuge and silence, something I would kill for right now.
This week started okay with the ex. She was very loving and attentive, almost to the point of obsequiousness.
I should have taken it as a forewarning when she started talking about how we have problems; how every major blow up we’ve had is because we can’t communicate. My knee-jerk impulse is to point out this is manifestly not a “both sides” issue and, in fact, every major blow up we’ve had is because she mixed vodka with cough mixture and once again turned into a drunken jackass. But I let it slide…for now. I don’t want to get into a fight with her right away and I can gently work on correcting her gaslighting later.
We actually had a fun day together. We got pleasantly drunk, watched some TV, ordered some pizza and had even had what they call “sex.” Everything seemed fine. I was willing to hope against hope that maybe, just for once, it wasn’t just hot air she was blowing. Maybe she had changed, maybe she really was working on her issues.
I was proved wrong yesterday. What started out as a fairly innocuous discussion quickly became heated before turning into a full-blown argument. I tried to steer the conversation into whatever else we could talk about, to defuse the situation, but I noticed no matter what we were discussing, she immediately took the hard opposite of whatever point I held. This wasn’t something diametrically opposed, like political parties or abortion or Kamala Harris’ real race, we were talking about things like history and theology (the latter I went to university for, the former I am very interested in) and whatever I said, she would jump to the opposite side. Even when I feigned agreeing with her, she would then start supporting the point I’d ostensibly abandoned.
Power struggle. Those were the words my best friend used to describe my interactions with her when I would tell him about her and how my day went. It’s like a contest of wills on the smallest of things, isn’t it? He’d previously dated a narcissist too, and was happy to chime in many of the things my ex said and did were just like his ex (and mine from years ago). He’s absolutely right. Even when the ex is sober it’s like pulling teeth just to get her to agree to the most trivial of things. “Fine,” I used to mock in her voice, “I agree to this but not because you said it, but because I did”.
As I said, our heated discussion quickly devolved into a shouting argument. She deployed the projection and odious lines she’d used before. “O mighty and wise cocksucking Thompson, who is never wrong about anything, what pearls of wisdom do you have for us today?!” she smirked. I don’t bother engaging with her dumbass rhetoric but tell her I’m wise to the fact that she’s deliberately chosen two topics I know infinitely more about than her, and framed things so unless I just agree with everything she says that somehow makes me arrogant.
She holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “See? You see? This is what I’m talking about: sometimes we need to just take five minutes out to chill because we’re not good communicators. We need to work on our issues together.” She tells me if we’re going to have full trust she wants access to my phone and Reddit account. Apparently I have “Reddit bitches” because someone on Reddit was kind enough to send me kitty litter for Morgoth the Third earlier this year when I was too wasted on extract to get out of bed. This person could be sending me nudes, I could be telling them I love them and they’re “my angel”, but no, a kind Internet stranger sending kitty litter is proof positive I’m on a tour of the States, banging my choicest hobags from Reddit.
It’s more ridiculousness than I can bear and I can’t help but laugh. “This isn’t a ‘both sides’ thing, you rancid whore. It never has been and I’ve told you repeatedly since you’ve been in jail to stop trying to blame me for issues that are solely yours.” The cat’s out of the bag and I go further – I tell her she acts like an absolute lunatic when she drinks and she has narcissistic personality disorder.
She flinches as if slapped and takes a glug of her mixer (yes, using the mouthwash I paid for). “Well if that’s what you believe I don’t see any point in us being together. I am going to go shopping and when I get back I will take my things and leave.” This is the point where I’m supposed to beg and plead for her not to go. Red rag to a bull. Uriah Thompson begs from no one. “Why wait until you get back from shopping?” I ask. “You want to go, take your things and go now.” “No, I’ll go when I’m ready, and not a moment sooner.” For a microsecond I consider letting her have her way, but I know the folly of that; she’d continually show up every day demanding to be let in because she forgot a shoe, or a beloved sock, or whatever. Any excuse to keep coming back.
My blood is up and I go back into the house to get her luggage. “You want to leave? Ok, leave now then, here’s your stuff.” I throw it onto the porch. She sneers she has stuff in the dresser and closet and she isn’t going until she can sort it out. “No need” I laugh, “I’ll do it for you!” I go inside and start taking armfuls of her clothes out of the dresser and throwing them on top of her luggage.
“Let go of my stuff!” she squawks. I keep picking up her clothes and taking them outside. She tries to grab them out of my hands but I’m taller and faster than her. “Ok, you want to touch my stuff, I’ll touch yours!” I hear scraping and cables being moved. My blood runs cold when I realize she’s fucking with my laptop. I turn around and sure enough she’s disconnecting my laptop and has it clutched in her arms.
“Bring my stuff back in and you can have it back.” The red mist descends. I’m not going to bother with negotiation. My last laptop, she fucking hurled it across a hotel room we were staying at, like a goddamn frisbee, and she tried to steal it last year as a compliance mechanism. I’m not taking the chance with this laptop. I drop her things and grab at my laptop. She’s too drunk to register what I’m doing and doesn’t have the chance to snatch it away. We end up grappling over it and I pour all my non-existent upper body strength into wresting it out of her arms, which I accomplish, as she collapses to the floor. I hide it under the mattress and carry on throwing her clothes outside.
“Stop! I’ll call the police! Rape! Rape! Assault!” She shouts. “Go ahead” I tell her, “Call them, I’ll have them remove you from here for trespassing.” “I don’t have any warrants anymore, I’m not afraid of the police!” she responds. “You’re not on the lease, remember? In the eyes of the law you’re just a guest who overstayed their welcome.” “I paid for the rent, I can prove it!” “You transferred money to my account, a gift between friends. Did you pay the landlord directly?” Something seems to sink in there. “I have receipts for all the furniture in the house, so it’s mine!” “Ok, so take it with you when you go. Whatever.” I laugh. She points to a fresh bruise on her arm that she must have acquired when I grabbed my laptop from her, “What do you think they’ll make of this then?” She smirks. “I don’t know where you got that, perhaps in jail…where you were recently released from.” As I’ve always said, the repercussions for getting locked up for public drunkenness extend far beyond the weekend.
I think it hits her then she’s in a no-win scenario and she starts to tearfully apologize. I sigh and gently put her clothes down and sit down on the porch with her. She’s blubbing now about how she didn’t mean it and she was just being defensive. She expresses shock I would just throw her out like that and says even in her two divorces and with nasty exes, they would always let her into the house to get her stuff. “If the situation was reversed I would never do that to you!”
Never do that to you. That phrase has been rattling around in my skull all week now and is a stark reminder of when she abruptly took off years ago, leaving me on the brink of homelessness. She never asked how I got by, financially, between her departure and me getting a job (which I got fired from for drinking cough mixture in the bathroom when I was meant to be restocking the shelves). By the skin of my teeth. I tell her as much and she scoffs. “I have no sympathy for you. You could have gone out and gotten a job. You were on the verge of homelessness? You made me actually homeless!”
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this and it once again makes me angry. I tell her I expected things to follow the same pattern they had so many times last year: that she would go detox at the VA and come crawling back a few days later and we’d pretend nothing happened. But she let her supposedly ‘rapey’ ex – who she shouldn’t have been communicating with anyway – sweet talk her into going and staying with him.
I’m acutely aware going over old wounds isn’t going to solve anything, because I know she won’t accept the fact I didn’t kick her out, like she believes, or the colossally stupid, drunken, mistakes she made, up to and including buying that stolen car, so I just let the matter drop. We drank until we passed out and surprisingly no one wet or shat the bed.
I was woken up at 5 this morning by music coming from the porch. The space next to me in bed was empty, so I knew it was the ex listening to music. There are headphones on the porch table she used the night before, so the fact that she was listening to music out loud set alarm bells ringing. She almost always only listens to music aloud when she’s drunk and overly emotional.
I consider trying to go back to sleep but eventually roll out of bed and head out for a cigarette. There’s a near-empty bottle of tequila on the desk. It was full when we went to bed. Fuck.
Sure enough she’s already trashed. Her eyes are glazed over and she’s listening to Irish-American folk songs or something.
I sit across from her and drink my ice water as I light up a smoke. “Why are you up so early?” She asks, “I didn’t wake you, did I?” I tell her there’s no bedroom window because she broke it when she threw my favorite ashtray at it and she’s playing music at full blast so, yes, she did. I ask her to turn it down in case she wakes up the neighbor.
I get confirmation she’s blasted when she starts shouting at me. Not angrily; when she’s well and truly drunk she has no volume control. She’s ranting about Labor Day of all things and how “kids these days” have no idea what it means, but her (supposedly) Irish ancestors suffered for people to have a day off. Yep, she’s trashed. She has an agitated drone to her voice and I know she’s angry and we’re on a countdown before she finds something to blame me for.
It’s not long in coming when she says people like me (meaning just me) are ignorant of the struggle of her ancestors (meaning just her) and I’m a pussy and not a “real man” because I used to abide by my employer’s regulations on lunch and break length and wasn’t willing to spend 45 minutes on the phone with her when I was at work.
I repeatedly ask her to lower her voice and calm down, but I know I’m not getting through to her so just silently head inside…where she follows me in to continue talking to me herself about how much of a pussy negroid simp I am because I never argued with my bosses about lunch or break length. “You are such a follower you know that?” She chuckles. “How did we ever end up together? I would never kowtow like you do, even when I was in the military!” I can’t help but laugh, “Uhh, isn’t an essential part of any military career conformity and following orders?” “What a stupid fucking thing to say” she sneers, as she walks past me with a fresh drink. “Maybe for idiots in the army, but not me!” Whatever. The only to do now is to catch up in drunkenness and prepare myself for any forthcoming fistfights. It’s all very tense at the moment but my fists of fury, while subdued right now, are ready to spring into action at any moment.
The next six drinks are for Kevin Kim! Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 15/August/2024 @ 2:45 pm
I can’t wait for Monday to arrive, John, as I am getting a payment. It’s been a rough couple of days on my end. Left it to the last minute – as I’m increasingly wont to do – to make a last-minute trudge to the shop on a booze run. I thought I had $6 left in my bank account, obviously not enough to tide me over and get something to ward away the shakes the next day so figured I might as well go out with a bang and get myself a bottle of mouthwash. Fuck going to Walmart, at one of the worst crossroads in the city for crime and methed-out mentalists, so late at night. I’d have to trudge to the alternate ‘posh’ grocery store the ex always preferred we go to, despite their products being indistinguishable to Best Value shit, at ridiculous mark ups.
In a rare bout of forward-thinking I decided to double check my bank balance before leaving, probably inspired by the high(er) prices of the particular store I was going to. Turns out I actually only had like $3.55. Groan. Decided to check the price of their mouthwash, dreading they weren’t going to have one anywhere near as cheap as Walmart. Sure enough, they didn’t. The cheapest one was like $4.50, and that was for a smaller bottle than the 1.5L I was used to getting. Still, rummaging around for some change I’d discovered earlier, I was able to find enough to add over a dollar to the mouthwash fund. With that I finally set off.
After a false start – I was a few houses down the road before I realized I left my wallet at home, and then couldn’t find it – I was on my merry way when I was almost run over. Now, I hate US car culture on general principles, but Tucson is particularly notorious for pedestrians getting run over and this was almost a textbook case of that. Came to an intersection that usually fills me with a little anxiety, when it’s busy, because I’ve almost been run over there a few times before while casually strolling around drunk. I wait until the relevant vehicles come to a full stop and the pedestrian walk light comes on. I wait for half a second or so, in case a driver decides to turn because of the weird ‘disregard red lights if you’re turning’ rule before I step on to the road. The intersection is well-lit but even then I’m still constantly looking around me. It’s especially a good thing I am, then, as to my right I see a truck slowly pull into the intersection. The driver must see me, surely, I’m almost halfway across the road. For a microsecond I figure they’ll idle there until I’ve fully crossed. Nope. In slow-motion I watch them turn left on to the road as I’m still walking. I see the driver clearly, she’s not looking at me, she’s not even looking in my direction, she’s looking to her right, looking for oncoming traffic because why would a pedestrian be crossing the road when the walk light is on? I immediately stop and can only watch in amazement as the truck completes the turn and drives right past me, maybe only about 4 feet in front of me. The driver stares straight ahead as she pulls into the road, completely oblivious to me in the middle of the road. If I hadn’t been constantly looking around there’s a distinct possibility she could have run me over. Fucking idiot.
Get to the store in good time and make my way straight to the health aisle. Guess what? They don’t have the bottle of mouthwash I can afford. I think maybe I’ve missed it, maybe they’ve sold out, but no; I desperately scan over the price tags again and again, looking for that $4.50 special, maybe there’s a gap I missed, but it’s simply not there. The cheapest bottle they have is $5.99. Fuck. I absentmindedly wander over to the booze aisle on the off-chance they have something discounted or on offer. No such luck. Only thing I could afford is like a $2 small carton of shitty, weak, wine and such a small amount of weak booze was only going to give me anxiety. Ye gods do have a sense of humor; almost forgot my wallet at home, almost got run over on the way here, and now the trip’s been all for nothing.
I distantly consider the possibility of just trying to power through the night and hopefully catch some sleep. I wasn’t feeling too bad; surely if my body didn’t go into meltdown on just 3 tall boys and a shooter it should be ok, right? Maybe pop some of the ex’s sleeping pills to knock me out. I’m about to accept defeat and just head home when I have a eureka moment: I can get extract! I still have food stamps, so if I throw in some mixer as well I can make some acceptable, if not gross-tasting, drinks to tide me over. I head on over to the spice aisle and am greeted with all the colors and flavors of the of the discerning booze-lover’s rainbow: vanilla, almond, lemon, mint, rum, maple, anise, coconut. I’m spoiled for choice! Shit is not cheap though, with prices going from $3.50 up to $19 for comparatively tiny-ass bottles. I hadn’t drank any of the stuff since I recommended to you that Swan start drinking it and I couldn’t remember exactly how much I needed to make do, so I grabbed a few bottles of different flavors and brands, just in case. I even managed to pocket a couple on the sly to make up for the bad karma of almost getting run over. Made sure to check the ingredients first – IIRC by law extracts in the US must contain alcohol or they have to be marketed as imitation extract. Sure enough, the small(ish) bottle of lemon extract I grab has 83%(!) alcohol, as do the others. I pick up quite a few bottles; if that’s more than enough to get me fucked, let alone just tide me over, I can use the rest for later. Price tag isn’t cheap and I wince at paying $50+ for a couple bottles of soda and, erm, baking ingredients in the packed self-checkout section. Still, at least the mission wasn’t a complete failure and I had something to warm me cockles.
When I got home later it was time to sample the wares and wind down for the night. I chose lemon as, from memory, vanilla was a bit blegh on the tongue, and also mostly because I had my eye on that “Alcohol (83%)” label. Tentatively poured about a shot’s worth into my ice-filled glass and topped it to the brim with some nice soda. As I brought the glass up to my lips I could really smell the lemon; it was potent, like industrial cleaning product. Well…bottom’s up. The sensation was…somewhat unpleasant, to say the least. My lips instantly began to tingle and I felt this itching, biting, sensation. Even when I wiped my lips clean I could still feel them burning. I worried for a second I might then start to feel my guts melting and wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake. My mouth felt strange, itchy and tingly; and I had the constant urge to lick my teeth and scratch my tongue. The taste was how I imagined lemon pledge with a dash of soda flavoring would be. Couldn’t be done with maintaining on that all night, so take another big swig to top up the glass with more soda. Maybe diluting it further would help. Had to do that maybe three more times – even committing the sin of just tipping some down the sink to get the liquid out faster for more soda – before finally it approached something tasting like an overly-liqueured Long Island iced tea. Still, eventually got the job done – despite the itchy, burning, lips.
Sleep was, once again, put on the back burner. It was already something like 0430 in the morning before I even entertained the idea of going to bed, and I barely felt tired despite having been up for some 48 hours by that point. I decided to just power through and blast some Uriah Heep on my headphones while the ex was still passed out from her sleeping pills. I briefly consider getting up to check if she is still alive, but I’m quite comfy on my Doctor Who cushion on the floor. The only thing to do now is keep drinking until that money is in my account tomorrow, and then I can buy something snazzy like a few cheap box wines and a handle of Tito’s. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 05/August/2024 @ 2:09 am
If she can handle the saltiness, John, you can always convince the missus to switch to cooking wine. Off the top of my head it’s like 21.5%, so stronger than wine but weaker than spirits. Or even better, she can switch to mouthwash or extract. A bottle of mouthwash will keep me nicely fucked up for like 2 whole days, maybe 3 if I pace myself, and it’s only ~$4.50. Extract is ‘free’ because the bottles are small and easy to pocket (and then you won’t have to worry about the money being spent).
As for my daily whine,I think I need to see a proctologist or something. Despite making it rain ass piss, when using the toilet, I’ve had this constant sensation of a bowling ball-sized wad of shit impacted just beyond my rectum. I’d strain harder but I’m worried about a prolapsed anus.
» Posted By Thompson On 01/August/2024 @ 3:54 pm
Good to see you and your lady still together, John. As for me, I’m in a committed relationship with the bottle and my jerking-off hand. We’re a happy throuple.
And of course good that you are walking again without half gagging to death. I think the furthest I’ve ever trekked for booze was a 6 & 1/2 hour round trip walk. Middle of an Arizona summer so temps were 100°F+. I was living at a makeshift homeless veterans shelter in the middle of fucking nowhere. We had a guy with a snaggletooth who would normally take me on beer runs in his truck, but he’d been spending more and more time away, at his girlfriend’s house, and I was desperate. Had to lug a 30-pack of Natty Daddy, or something equally blergh, in my backpack for the walk home. It was tiring, I tell thee, and the sun beating down on me didn’t help, but I dipped into fields every now and then to crack a can open. Goes without saying by the time I made it back to camp the cans were unpleasantly warm, but they were enough to tide me over for the next day or two until beer run guy decided to pay us a visit.
Took me a long time to learn pacing, and it wasn’t just being a broke ass bum that did it. Earlier in my drinking career normie mates I’d be drinking with would chastise “Pace yourself, Thompson! You’re drinking like a negro in heat!” because every time I drank it was a race to black out and by the end of the night out I’d be snoring in the back of a taxi or behind a Target dumpster. Nowadays I’ll try to slam drinks until I’m nicely sauced and then coast on that with maintenance drinking, otherwise I just wouldn’t get shit done.
» Posted By Thompson On 29/July/2024 @ 4:00 pm
It’s good you tend to stick to the same foods, John, and don’t dare try anything different. One can never be too careful. I remember the first time I shit myself, back in 2018. Had been drinking vodka all day & night with a Magic: The Gathering buddy. Had to make a last-minute booze run to Walmart before cut off time and about halfway through the walk my brain suddenly gives me a 3-second warning of ALERT! SHIT INCOMING!
I didn’t even really have time to react, aside from desperately calculating if I could make it to a hedge or a bush or something, before I felt a loaded burrito-sized package of shit forced its way through my ringpiece, filling the seat of my jeans. I just remember dying inside at the horrific sensation of warm, fluffy, peanut butter caressing my cheeks.
I didn’t have time to make it back to my mate’s and get showered/changed, before cut off time, so penguin-walked it the rest of the way to Walmart. Shuffled straight to the bathroom, peeled off my semi-skinny jeans, tried to flush my loaded boxers down the toilet (evidence?) and did as best as I could to scrape off the cooling shit caking my ass crack.
Least I managed to get the vodka in time, and my pal passed out not long after I got back, so plenty of vodka for me that night.
Never mind “never trust a fart”; since then if I get even a hint of leaky anus I try to make sure I’m never too far from a toilet.
» Posted By Thompson On 28/July/2024 @ 11:33 pm
«« Back To Stats PageThat’s an interesting poem, John, and makes me wish my toilet would flood because at least then it would be working somewhat. As it stands, it’s clogged with a pot of spaghetti the ex dumped in it after she accused me of hiding her benzos from her so she would “hallucinate the devil” during her booze withdrawals. I’ve barely been able to get off the couch so where she expects me to find the energy to hide stuff from her is beyond me.
Last night, however, I somehow found the willpower to walk to the liquor store before bed called and I passed out. It was around 10:30 and they close at 12, so I knew I’d have plenty of time. A few trips in the past I’d made right up to 11:50. I get to the store and the shutters are down. Groaaannn. For some unknown reason they closed ridiculously early. It’s a Chevron gas station, not some little mom and pop liquor store, so I have no idea why they closed early.
There’s a Circle K across the road I can go to, but I hate going to that one. I can get beer but, bizarrely, the only liquor they sell are Fireball shooters, and I fucking hate Fireball. I suppose I could always get the Lyft to divert on the way to work tomorrow morning, but that’s another couple of bucks and I’m already here so fuck it.
I must have been dumb-drunk as I ended up picking up a can of Pringles, I was feeling a bit peckish. When I got home I munched my way through practically the whole tube and turned around to see a bag of nacho chips on the couch I’d completely forgotten I bought on Sunday. Whoops.
I woke up a bit late this morning feeling oddly fresh. Maybe it’s just because I didn’t have yesterday’s wine hangover, but I feel good enough to question if I even need to drink mouthwash this morning.
It’s hot out. Blistering. I’m shirtless and I’m still sweating. Not that normal sweat either; that thick syrupy booze sweat that coats one in a layer of grease. The ex calls them the Mexican shit sweats, but I don’t know what that means and I’m too afraid to ask because I know it will result in another deranged monologue from her.
I sleepily tread on some glass shards on the porch, leaning over to stroke my cat, Morgoth the Third. It doesn’t draw any blood but fuck does it hurt. They’re the remains of the beer bottles the ex was throwing at the front wall when she had a meltdown after I told her there were no Nutrageous bars in the house. I couldn’t be bothered cleaning it up after she passed out on the kitchen floor. I figured it was her mess, why should I clean up after her? When she came back to the world of the conscious I told her as much too. She cleaned up the larger pieces of glass but there’s still all these small shards lying around, along with cigarette butts she threw on the ground because she was so drunk she forgot where she put the ashtray. I really should sweep all this up.
After quaffing a few glasses of water I decide I might as well have some beer. I mean I feel ok right now, but that doesn’t mean withdrawals won’t strike 1, 2, 3 hours after I leave to use the toilet at the Shake Shack (the library is still off limits for me; I’d been having dreams where I am accused by a portly black security guard taking a shit of murdering the guy I found dead).
A kitchen sink piss and a few beers later and I am back in the sack. Of course I forgot to bring beers with me. There’s a bottle of cough mixture on between the pillows and I down it, the taste making me think of chicken gizzards for some reason. I stagger out of bed and try to quaff some water. Wash the cough medicine out of my system. I immediately double over and spew into the sink. It’s odd, the ex told me not long ago she believes the tap water here has been poisoned with fentanyl by the ‘chinky dink government.’ Maybe she was on to something for once in her life, a retarded clock being right once a day and all.
I wobble outside to join the ex for a cigarette. She doesn’t look at me as I sit across from her and light up a smoke. “Looks like you were right about the ‘not being able to trust the water’ part” I pant, sweating from the puking and mild withdrawals. She turns to me slowly, eyes lidded, and smirks. “I wish I could say I care but the truth is I don’t.” What the hell!? “I’m just here to perform CPR if I have to. Make sure you don’t die, and then we’re done.” She shrugs as she pulls out a cigarette from the packet, “Not that you dying is a bad thing. I think humanity would be better off actually.” Holy shit. “Honey…” I shakily ask, “What’s wrong? Why are you angry?” She shrugs again and blinks slowly, “I’m not angry, you mongoloid cunt. Why would I be?” Not good. I do not need an angry, psychotic ex when I’m trying to to get drunk enough to be sober. The state I’m in, shaking like a leaf and wobbling all over the place, she could easily finish what she started with the rock if she gets angry enough.
I try to play diplomat. “Honey, you’re obviously upset about something. What have I said or done to put you in a mood?” She smirks, “This whole relationship, pussy lips.” I try to deescalate by asking if I can have one of her clonidines to help with my palpitations, redirect her into focusing on the nurse role she likes to LARP. “Why are you asking, cockface? Go ahead and take one. You probably already have. All you do is take and take and take, so go ahead and take one, you don’t need my permission.” For a moment I’m a child again and the ex is my stepmother. The sheer venom with which she attacks me is like a slap to the face. “You took my gabapentin when I was in jail (she’s confusing it with when she left the state at the start of last year) and I remember you talking about drinking cough medicine just to get high (I didn’t even know you could get high off it until I did). I didn’t know you were such a drug addict, you turd. I would never have gotten with you if I knew you were like that.” I tell her I’m going through withdrawals and that she needs to be supportive or go back to Dr Greg’s (a single-kidneyed drunk who was so deluded he thought his tour as a medic in Vietnam made him a doctor). “How can you be going through withdrawals, dumbass? Look at all the empties you drank in the sink!” Just hours ago she was lambasting me for wasting so much booze by having it dribbling off my lips – an event she witnessed the night before – and now she’s saying I drank it all!
This is why I can’t be sober around her. These episodes. They’re extremely disturbing to deal with when I’m tanked; if I was sober I’d either be bouncing her head off the pavement or running off into the sunset screaming. I abandon my plans for taking it easy and down the bottle of mouthwash I’d been saving for a special occasion, along with discreet coffee mugs of wine when I can.
Feeling normal, I decide to listen to Uriah Heep on my headphones while she does fuck-knows-what in the kitchen. And then if happens. She stumbles and collapses on the couch, passed out like a spaz with her leg bent at a weird angle. I’m finally living the life I was meant to be living, and for the first time in ages I feel close to content. But any happiness on my part is a wistful dream. From the corner of my eye I see the step out out on to the porch, again sans pants. She’s saying something with a snarl on her face but I can’t hear her over my music. She plops down in the chair across from me, mouth still working, and I point to the headphones to indicate I can’t hear her, as I struggle to pull them out and switch off my music.
“…fuck you right up the nose. Fuck that bitch-cunt aunt you call ‘mom’. Fuck your brothers, fuck your sisters, fuck you.” Sigh. “What? What now? What’s wrong?” She tilts her head to the side and smirks, “Hmmm, I wonder. We were supposed to share that vodka and you drank it all.” I genuinely lol at this. When she came in off the porch and passed out on the couch there was a quarter of the bottle left; enough for 3 or 4 drinks for her. There’s no physical way I could have drank the last of the bottle without spewing up and/or passing out. I go inside to grab the bottle, in case in her delusions she couldn’t find it, and discover she’d hidden it. She must have woken up at some point during my Uriah Heep session and had been drinking it since.
I tell her I didn’t drink the last of the vodka, she did, and she’s blaming me because she’s so out of it and needs a villain in her narrative so she can feel sorry for herself. She charges over to me and starts punching and slapping at my face. I push her back and tell her to fuck off. She sits down in the next chair and continues to spout off about what an evil man I am.
I’m not in the mood to listen to her crap and get up to head back inside. I stop by her chair to tell her she’s delusional and she’s just trying to gaslight me. She launches up out of her chair and tries to punch and slap me again. I push her back defensively and she falls into the chair which topples over backwards. In a repeat of jets & furry men night she’s furiously indignant. “Don’t you ever lay hands on me like that again! How dare you hit me!” I tell her I didn’t hit her, but pushed her back to stop her from hitting me. She comes in after me, shrieking about how she’s going to call the police and get me done for assault, how she’s going to slit my throat in my sleep blah blah. I don’t respond. When she’s this psychotic there’s no talking her down. The only way to resolve this is to just get more booze to shut her the hell up.
I quietly palm some of the dollar bills from my emergency stash and order a Lyft. I’ll just get some smokes, some more booze, let her cool off for a bit.
When I get back I tip-toe up and peer around the corner of home. Sure enough she’s sat on the porch, ranting to herself “…abusive asshole stole my vodka!” Clearly she hasn’t had enough time for the cooling off part.
I head around the corner, sit on the curb, and call one of my mates here for moral support and to kill some time, while I swig from the Buzzball I’d nominally bought for her and I.
After a while the sun starts to set and I grow bored. I want to go home. I creep back up to the house and peer around the corner again to see and hear she’s still on the porch loudly rambling to herself. I really, am not in the mood to deal with that.
I go around the corner, into a side alley, and lay on the ground. I curl up under some bushes and pull a nearby tarp over me, to hide from the prying eyes of ‘concerned citizens’. After a few glugs from the Buzzball I end up passing out.
I come to what feels like hours later, well after sunset. I check my phone and as expected there’s some missed calls and texts from her. Most of what she says is incomprehensible. She calls me an “abusive drunk loser fuck” and accuses me of hiding the Roku remote from her. She misplaces the thing multiple times a day, but of course the running theme of the last few weeks has been let’s accuse poor old Thompson of random shit because he’s such an evil person he would obviously do something like that. Then I read she’s going to hunt for my laptop as retribution. My stomach twists into a knot. It’s been hidden for most of the time she’s been back, for fear of something like this happening. She knows how much I value it and sees it as a rival for attention, hence I dare not even power it on while she’s around in case she tries to break, hide, or steal it like she did the last one. The chances of her finding where I’ve stashed it are pretty low, but I’m not taking that chance.
I peek around the corner and I can see the porch light’s on. She’s sat on the porch, smoking and listening to music on her phone. Game time.
I stride through the gate as casually as I can, dropping the tobacco and Buzzball I’d bought on the table, to explain where I’d been. She barely acknowledges me. I can see there’s a new packet of cigarettes in front of her and a fresh handle of Platinum vodka at her feet. I’m confused. “If you had the money to get more vodka why didn’t we just go out and get some, instead of you attacking me like a psychopath?” I ask her. She shrugs, “I didn’t have any money. You did. While I was searching around the house I found the $50 in your backpack. It’s my money.” Shit. She found my emergency stash. I expect a lecture about me ‘hiding’ it from her but instead she sniffs, “and this is my vodka and these are my cigarettes and you can’t have any.” Real mature. I could fight her for the money, I should, even; it’s mine since I was the one who paid for our visit to the Cheesecake Factory. But I know with complete certainty she believes it’s hers and a battle over it could get ugly if she thinks she’s been wronged. I mentally sigh and concede it’s a lost cause. At least she’s just going to spend it on booze and smokes, both of which I can avail myself of if she doesn’t willingly share.
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.” I bring the Buzzball inside with me and check if my laptop is still safe and hidden which, thankfully, it is. Not so one of my carnivorous plants, which she got me for Christmas. She must have punted it across the room as there’s sphagnum moss everywhere. She’s already killed two of the other plants she got me when we got into a prior argument. She’s also thrown some of my display action figures on the ground. Another casualty is my laptop cooling pad, which looks tampered with. I pick it up to examine it and find she’s snapped off one of the support struts. I leave her to her music and rambling on the porch as I climb into bed, frazzled and depressed, ready to pass out and wondering if it really would be all that bad if she killed me in my sleep.
And that’s it. I’ll pass out and hope I don’t wake up with the artery in my neck slashed from a kitchen knife. It’s the best we can hope for in this world. Cheers!
» Posted By Thompson On 27/July/2024 @ 5:11 am