Liver Massacre

When you get yourself into a serious binge drinking cycle there is little that's going to motivate you to stop. The cool liquid asphyxiates any emotional qualms you may have had and the subtle yet noticeable anxiety you carry from day to day dissipates like the sugar at the base of the shot glass. You are encouraged by close friends to continue the collegiate consumption of distilled product only to feel looser, stronger, but less in control.

You know that the countless hours of non-measurable drinking is starting to take a toll on your internal organs, reminding you through ill tempered stunts that you should slow it down. The third trip to the bathroom in under 2 hours and a mild dry heave that strokes the basin of your esophagus is only the tip of the iceberg. You know this is bad, but its feels better than not knowing the good. The real change of events occurs when you are able to bury the hints of your miscalculated tolerance and just move forward amicably to a full bodied blackout.

This is how its starts. Where it ends is a decisions left up to the innate principles remaining within you subconscious cerebral cortex. When does it click? When do you pull the chord, or do you hit the earth at peak velocity over and over again until something gives and you fall through to the core? As images become blurred and your knees wobble, battling the stairs from the bottom floor of the bar upwards like an overweight diabetes patient striving for caloric intake. Women close to Glenn Close's age begin to look like Meghan Fox, and overzealous hand shakes and hugs with the same sex dance upon the level of homosexuality. Passersby look at you as if your face constantly appears as it does in a fun house mirror, you sneer back at them forcing the awkward moment to the next level. Brushing off the sweat from your brow and checking your underarms for annoying and drastically unnecessary pit stains, you go to the bathroom to breathe and wash you liquid palms. It has been 30 minutes since your last drink, partially due the long line, but more blame belongs to your lack of desire to use the last 40 dollars in your checking account. The nerves are sliding back in, and the anxiety levels are pushing at your pores. You drink.

The night ends in a violent undressing to a bed face plant with a lack of nutrition leaving you mouth void of any hydration. The morning comes quicker than necessary and with the inability to avoid the pain in between your temples and the lack of anti-depressants pouring into your body. You reach for a Xanax you bought from an effervescent waitress at cheesecake factory, and attempt to crush it against the dresser. Giving up as the morsels of prescription drug finds its way in the mahogany finish, you swipe the crumbled into your hand and land them on your pallet. Entering the sun dripped kitchen with a vague memory of how you had entered this broken establishment, you pour yourself a glass of water. Elegantly you sip the the city flow and pour out the rest into the sink and grab your only solace - the last three sips out of the handle of vodka you purchased to last the week. Your mind settles and a faint smile emerges.