Four weeks in and the pledges, oaths, and now the Resolutions are pouring forth almost as quick as the whiskey flows down JJ’s gullet.  Four weeks and stuck already in a self-loathing, glimmer-of-hope, “fuck-this!” vortex of drinking, passing out, thinking about drinking, then drinking again.  “What a life,” he mutters, much put-upon by this descent into compulsion and debauchery.  The days slip away and repeat with occasional brief walks on the farm or shameful missions into town for MORE.

He ventured out yesterday from his farm that isn’t a farm to restock, the shopping list like a pre-apocalyptic wishlist:  3 bottles whiskey (Wild Turkey, 101 proof), carton of cigarettes (Marlboros, yes, back on those too), cans of soup (tomato and chicken noodle, Campbells only), popcorn kernels (microwave popcorn is for pussies.  Plus, he has no microwave), peanut butter (Jif), saltines (Premium), and vanilla ice cream (Friendly’s).  Oh yeah, Alka-Seltzer too (bicarbonate of soda).

Good to go for New Year’s Eve. Happy twothousandfourteen!  “Two fuckin thousand,” he says.  “Still haven’t got used to that.  Tonight I’m gonna party like it’s nineteenninetynine.”  He tries to stop talking to himself in the empty house.  It’s horrifying in some croaky way but he needs to try it now and again to make sure this is all real.

It’s real and he’s fucked and he knows it.

Happy New Year!