Showing posts with label the fabulous ms m. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the fabulous ms m. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: Weights & Meanings

 

Took the time machine to a party at the Factory last night to discover Andy Warhol lifting weights & Edie dancing while a pair of lovers entertained the company of Napoleon via a Ouija Board.

As I sip my drink and watch the antics of the room Andy Warhol says to me:

“Mony, I'm afraid that if you look at anything long enough, it loses all of its meaning.”

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: Coca Cola


Last night: Took the Time Machine to see Andy Warhol.


Andy was pacing around frantically with an oversized Coca-cola bottle and shaking his head for a few moments before noticing my presence. 


"Oh dear Moni," Andy exclaimed, "you look so parched. Would you care for a coke? It's simply the drink of the masses, rich or poor!"


Shrugging nonchalantly to indicate my uncertainty over thirst launches him into a rant...


"Moni, my dear, what is great about our country America is the tradition where the rich buy essentially the same things as the poor. You can watch TV and see Coca Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca Cola, too. A coke is a coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it."


As he stops to catch his breathe, I yawn and roll my eyes. Catching my eyes before I can turn away he postures again... 


"Would you like a Coca Cola?"


With a shrug, I say why not?


Thursday, August 11, 2016

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: Andy's Birthday



Last Tuesday: Took the time machine to The Factory to see Andy Warhol. It was Andy's birthday when I arrived.

He stopped and welcomed me with a surprise when I wished him Happy Birthday. He said, “Mony, my dear Mony, birthdays are not a celebratory event. Your birth marks your live in slavery. You see being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery. People must begin breaking bad habits and celebrating this servitude.”

I smiled as I surprisingly agreed with him. With a nod of my head Andy brought out a small dessert dish and said, “Mony, do be a dear, help me eat this cake.” 

To which I replied, “I can't. That cake celebrates my enslavement to sugar. It's a bad habit I must break with.”

Stunned Andy paused and said nothing before tossing aside the dessert then walking away.

Friday, March 25, 2016

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: Falling Together


Late Last night/Early This morning: Took the time machine to the factory to see Andy Warhol. Andy was working with Mylar Balloons and playing a repeating Chopin’s Nocturne 2nd Movement in E flat for background noise.

As I hobbled in still nursing my sore ankle, Andy motions for me to sit down on a box he was bringing for me. 

As I sat down without mentioning my injury, Andy Warhol stops to say to me, “Mony, I never fall apart, because I never fall together. Now how does this look? Too boxy?”

I smile and nod as Andy Warhol he tells me, “I think it all falls together nicely.”

So I say, “I couldn't agree more.”

(3-24-13)


Monday, February 1, 2016

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: Double Elvis & Double Lives



Last night: Took the Time Machine to see Andy Warhol at The Factory. Andy was entertaining guests & shooting screen tests. 

While I eagerly grabbed a cocktail & a seat in the corner, I listened to Bob Dylan & Andy Warhol discussing Double Elvis With a Gun. 

Andy mused “Can you imagine being shot? It would be as though ending one life and beginning another. To know the difference between watching TV & living life.”

To which Bob replied, “I don't know Andy I'm just trying to make it through the weekend but I’d be happy to take an Elvis.”

Before I left The Factory I knew this was nothing like watching TV.

(2-1-2013)

Thursday, December 31, 2015

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: Epic Blow



Last Night: Epic Blow.

Took the Time Machine to see Andy Warhol at The Factory. 

Andy Warhol decides we need to see Richard Avedon because he is having an epic photo shoot. As we arrive the model is mid action with her hair blown. 

Jump to a few cocktails & hours later: I'm sipping a champagne cocktail and I muse to Andy how fabulous it would be to have all that hair to play with.

Andy then muses very loudly to Richard: When you're done... Would you mind doing us next? Moni and I would love to get blown tonight!

(12-30-2012)

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Time Travel with Andy Warhol: So What



Last night tonight: Took the time machine. I was going to The Factory. To see Andy Warhol performing a trick at 10pm teaching people to say “So What”

As I arrive early at 9pm I find Andy quite relaxed before the performance where he explained his trick to me…

“Mony, you have to understand that sometimes people let the same problem make them miserable for years when they could just say, ‘So what.’

‘My mother didn’t love me.’ So what.
‘My husband won’t ball me.’ So what.
‘I’m a success but I’m still alone.’ So what.

Honestly Mony, I don’t know how I made it through all the years before I learned how to do that trick. It took a long time for me to learn it, but once you do, you never forget…”

(12-28-2012)

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Time Travel With Andy Warhol: Make Art


Last Night: Took the time machine to see Andy Warhol at The Factory.

Andy was amid a fabulously grand display while everyone looked on in anticipation.

Pausing to catch a breathe he ponders loudly.

“Where has Ms Monica been lately? In my dreams? No. But here she is drinking my champagne and yawning like the others.”

Quietly he looks up with an expectation of an answer. Before I speak he starts again.

“Could she have fallen madly badly in love? Where are your bruises & broken bones, Mony?

With a smile I shake my head and reply,
“I've been thinking about & trying to make art. And well you know how it is to love people.”

“Mony, you don't try to make art! Have another champagne!”

He waves someone to grab me another drink before continuing.

“Look Mony, don't think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it's good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art. But for now just enjoy your drink!”

Monday, April 13, 2015

Friday, January 23, 2015

Time Travel with Andy Warhol...

One of my favorite series that I wrote was a fictional take on events with historical figure Andy Warhol. It was inspired by a lack of something to do one evening... but I've digressed and shared too much. I'll let you read about it instead. Here's one of the passages. 

Enjoy!
Kisses, m.




May 12, 2013
2:00AM Last Night : Took the time machine to see Andy Warhol at The Factory.
Andy was contemplating mortality while asking me if I’d like another Mimosa. Decidedly I’d grown weary of the conversation and had had two Mimosa’s too many so I replied, “Please Andy darling, no more drinking and talking about dying. I’d rather go shopping. Can we go shopping Andy?”
Being divinely Andy Warhol he placed a skull upon his head and said, Mony, I never think that people die. They just go to department stores! Lets visit them! And I’ll wear a hat.”

Monday, November 10, 2014

Nothing More Than Feelings



Feelings are what you make of them... meaning? They belong to you and you alone. When in love or hate... you can hope and wish that the other person feels them too but you can not count your life on it. You can only trust yourself. Feelings don't come and go like seasons. They are there or they are not. Yet... Fickle people are just that with feelings. Our emotions aren't ruled by the heavens. 

The stars and suns of astrology are fun to waste time with but if you truly rely on the stars to guide your life you are not dealing with reality. The fantasy of which sign is compatible might work in the book but it's not very methodical for life. I love my horoscopes! Mostly to prove them wrong. And I love the sun, stars and moon for they bless me with amazing light to shoot by. 

I will never understand how and why others make situations that have nothing to do with them solely about them but nonetheless I know the moon has nothing to do with being bad mannered. It's a lovely scapegoat for human nature but far from reality. The fantasy of believing you don't control yourself is nice, but it's just a myth. I know what I feel and I am in control of those emotions daily. My feelings are my own... when they have nothing to do with someone else, I suggest that person minds their own business. I don't interfere in others lives. I support, I encourage and give praise when I feel like it. I expect nothing in return. 

When I love and it is true, my feelings rely upon me not the man I love. Whether that person changes or leaves my life should not change how I feel about him. When you love, it is certain. Not waning with the tides... It doesn't come and go. You never stop loving someone. And sometimes I think you love them so much that you find a way to let go because you want their happiness even if you can't give it to them. 

Here's a 300 about missing and trying to reach a lover when you've been gone too long... it's published in my book On The Other Side. You can find on amazon & barnes & nobles for nook and kindle. 

Ever miss someone? Have you ever used a landline or listened to messages on an answering machine? 

Enjoy!
Kisses, m. 



Been Trying 
(2-16-2010)

Darling, you there? Pick up. Been trying to reach you for a while now. Just once it would be nice to catch you home instead of getting the machine. Talking like this has become a habit. Out on the road and nothing makes sense without your voice. Forgive me if the machine has 35 hang-ups before you get this message. It’s soothing to me. Your voice. That little lift in your tone brings me a sense of comfort in the busy day to day of this unnatural life. I could stand to hear it again and again. Small relief for a simple man. Actually I’m calling cause we passed through Ves Perti, Texas yesterday. Remember that place? Yeah, I was thinking about you all night. Our first trip out on the road and good ol Ves Perti, that four-way stop out in the middle of no where. That place was hardly an excuse for a town. That small diner next to the gas station is still standing. I found our table in the back with our initials carved into the wood. Dinner and dancing to the old jukebox while the boys in the band laughed us on. That seems so incredibly long ago. Damn. All I can think about is you. Missing you is unbearable. How about next trip out, you come along? For old times sake, come cheer me on. I know what you’ll say, but just think about it. Please? Look, I’ll try calling again before I leave town. Yeah, don’t worry I’ll check the message service and see if you left me anything. Please, keep leaving them. It’s a just a piece of paper, but all the same it’s comes from you. Love you darling. Have a good day. Oh, try not to miss me too much.

Monday, November 3, 2014

Bait



The Dalai Lama admits to being human and capable of outrage, anger and thoughts unbecoming to what we consider buddhist. It is our mental capacity in life that sets us apart from the neanderthals. If a human refrains from releasing his or her emotions something is wrong with them. So yes, I've stated this before... I get worked up, I have feelings, I fall in love and lust, feel anger and I dislike awkward situations. But I look to the larger view of things before really settling on an opinion. 

Something Ms. M dislikes... Is being used. I will lie when being lied to. I'm human with a terrible sense of humor and I knee jerk react sometimes. To get to the point, I'm always more than appropriately friendly and extend courtesy to all the people I know but... Using someone as the bait to hook anyone is never ok. Why? No need to use anyone. You are the bait Dolls and Kens. You are capable of getting the right person on your own without resorting to any kind of antics, games or trickery. 


So... Get a hold of your insecurities. Please leave this lady out of any schemes. Because I can see a setup a mile away... I'll never give a true answer to stories or manipulations. In fact I usually spin a fun story of my own. I'm a writer, dolls! Terrible sense of humor. ;) Kisses!

Look, you should be talking to the guy or girl your are interested in instead of looking to me or trying to manipulate & pump me for info. If someone isn't calling or texting you back... Leave them the heck alone! They have something else going on and if you aren't respecting people's privacy it doesn't look in your favor! 

Try to have a life that is full and busy with the things you love to do. Take time to enjoy it all. Keep going without this person. It's more attractive. Be supportive if you want to but don't expect anything back. Trust me! I've chased off my share of men as a naive young woman. Not lying here. Ms. M isn't anyone's enemy... Well I wasn't until some foolishness & an interesting story. The jury is out now. Time will reveal the universe's plan.

Games are over. We aren't friends if you want to continue with them. It's cool. I understand if that's your choice. People have tried to use me in the past. You're forgiven. No worries. I trust you can move forward from your mistake. Why? Buddhist flaw: Compassion. I look to the bigger scope of things. An instance is not who you are always. 

We wouldn't accuse the world of being entirely bad because of terrorism in some regions. A few bad emotions and fear doesn't make anyone a bad person. You can offer more authentic friendship if you want to. You see, we can change anything in life including any situation until we die. You can't change people. Don't continue thinking you can. This is not the way. Use your mind not your reaction to situations. Be intelligent young men & women. You're responsible for caring for yourself. No one else. Take responsibility for putting yourself in all positions in life. Painful and hurtful ones too. Learn from the experience.

Remember that I just don't care for any sort of antics. Be yourself with me and we'll get on just fine. I like differences and similarities that come naturally. And I've done nothing to warrant manipulation except continually extend pleasantries & niceties to everyone. Sometimes against my better judgement & instincts I continue to trust.  Cause I like everyone. Furthermore, I adore that you are such amazing, beautiful women (& men) with enormous spirits when you remain true to yourselves. It is a rare pleasure to see and visit with you all, occasionally. Please realize you can always control yourself but you cannot control others. 

For me buddhism is a choice with responsibilities and challenges help me grow into a more compassionate person. I only wish that people would simply approach me when they wish to know something or need something. I'll never respond nicely to manipulations. I am human. Flawed. Imperfect.


For the love stuff... although I can't take sides & won't interfere, I'm not heartless. I don't know why people drop off. It's happened to me too! I didn't wait around for an answer cause I only harass people when it's work & deadlines. Even then I forget too. True friends always come back without having to bother. Lovers should be true friends. So it's just what it is. 


A hint: Honestly I find that being yourself and living your life is the best bait with love or dating stuff. It's the most attractive thing when you are true and confident. It works better than schemes. Desperation is very unnecessary. You had a life before love came along and you should still have a life during and after. Don't be too hard on yourself. Sometimes it fails with one person but there's always others. In the last year I've also had to admit to myself that it doesn't work out for a reason and the painful loss of love too, quite a few times. It's ok because it is meant to work out with someone else. Trust that. It's not a risk. Love yourself. Meet new people, make friends, find things to focus on and look forward to. 

Here's an older story about waiting & baiting a sadist... It has both a woman and man's perspective and unless you're a masochist don't mess around with sadists. They enjoy making people hurt. HUSH!

Enjoi!
Kisses, m.


Your Move Darling
(11-11-2009)


Sitting. Mind is coming to consciousness slowly. I’m tied up. Gagged. Harnessed to an old metal chair. The frame is thick steel that holds firm to the ropes securing my place. My eyes conveniently gain focus and I look up at the warden of my rope prison. Handsome, deadly, maniacal and damn if those eyes don’t pierce me to the core. Blood red lips full of anger, long black hair combed back, and the face of an angel, a dirty angel. He was probably the deadliest man in the city. Surrounded by a pair of armed thugs, and staring back at me. “It’s your move darling…”

There she was just walking toward me, cigarette smoke inches before her face clouding the view, dark hair and dark eyes. With my free hand wrapped around a pistol, I aim straight for her head. Without escape she has no choice but to accommodate my whim.

What could he possibly want with me? Information. We had come to an arrangement over the years that enable me to provide the detailed intricacies of my employer. Today, he broke the rules. The madman paces before me with his revolver in one hand and his other behind his back. Silently he issues a hand command to his men, and they are dismissed. Continuing his current stride he removes his jacket. His white dress shirt is stained red and the collar is ripped. Black tie is undone, and from the looks of it, his belt is gone too. The beat of his step echoes in the empty warehouse. The large empty cavern is illuminated by the light of day that spills in through a million holes. My skin has been bare too long and the ropes are beginning to cut in. “Look, we can’t spend all day here love, so until you make your move….”

Almost a shame to have to use such brutality on a beautiful creature, but there’s no choice. Stubborn, unforgiving woman without conscious deserves so much better than this, but I need answers. Until she gives in there is nothing that can stop this. The gun seems less of threat and more of a tactical flaunt. It’s time to move onto other forms of punishment…
I swallow hard as he walks behind me and leans in with a whisper, “I’m not enjoying this but you are being completely unreasonable.” Grabs me by the hair and down swings his arm across the side of my face. The sting reminds me of the reality of the situation as I can not react. Hold back the tears. Slowly he makes his way around me and moves toward a metal table. He sets the gun down and reaches for a long black snake-like cable. Slowly he makes his way back toward me unwinding the cord. Stopping before me he gently lifts up my face to his and asks, “Are you ready to make that move?” I whimper and shake my head knowing that the punishment will only continue until I break.

The harsh screams that she releases, break against the gag with a hypnotic and inviting melody. The violence that breaks this silence is a symphony to my ears. Harder I crack the electrical wire on her bare white skin, the louder her screams rupture into the void. The rush of her pain is completely intoxicating and I can not help myself I want more. As the blood spills across her white skin my heart beats faster. Her black camisole is nearly in pieces and I’m only starting to warm up to this abuse…

Holding back the tears, I take the lashings, until I can only manage to release the excruciating moans of anguish. Despite all sting, I’m certain not to give in. Hold strong and look him in the eye, to make it clear that ‘You Aren’t Winning.’ As the lashings have taken what’s left of my clothing, there’s a gleam in his eyes. Through my pain I can visibly see his sadistic pleasure in this. An excitement that is all too horrifying. He always was a sick bastard, twisted right down to the core. Finally he’s gotten the upper hand and my incapacitation lets his filthy mind run wild with the cruelest inventions. Enough! As the cord breaks with a final smashing blow to my bare back, he waits and moves onto the next device. Shiny, metallic, piercing metal blade that sends instant chills of pleasure down my spine. He didn’t mention anything about knives…

Cutting into her white delicate flesh that’s been bruised and battered is simply elegant to my eyes. Beautiful and Barbaric. Her screams of pain are almost beginning to mimic the sounds of pleasure. We’re in a battle of the mind, that’s certain to erupt at any moment. The likelihood of her surrender is quite slim. No matter. Unimportant. My mind is set. How far can I push this without giving in? I’ve no intention of stopping. Time to improvise.

“Don’t stop,” are my thoughts as his blade releases its final sting across my beaten body and he walks away. My attempts to make eye contact are useless as he’s all about this business of breaking me. Fool doesn’t realize that he’s already broken me, and now all I can think about is how to make him continue. At his table I can see the madman pause; resting both arms on the table he sighs and shows great strain. My busted mouth wants freedom from this gag, to beg for more. All my efforts to speak clearly are subdued. “I want more. I want more!” Wait. Stop. He’s listening. Lifting his head and pushing the hair out of his face, he turns toward me. Both eyes lock onto mine…

So you’re ready to make your move then?”




Friday, October 31, 2014

Gratitude



It's never too late to appreciate what you have in life and be grateful for it. I started writing daily during a dark period in my life. I was mesmerized by the darker human emotions because I was amidst them. Needless to say I'm grateful for the dark period, everyone I know and all their support. Without that period of time I would never have created my workingman's fiction and...  here's the first (micro?) story I posted online.

Happy Halloween!
Are you grateful for anything? 
Are you dressing up?
What will you be?

Enjoi!
Kisses, m.



Killing Changes You.
(4-1-09)

“I could get used to this!” was what I thought as I slit his throat with my sharp knife.

The precise blade slid ever so delicately through and through his skin without the slightest bit of hesitation. Blood spilled down his chest blanketing the white button-down shirt in a dark crimson red. I was feeling very much like Hannibal Lecter when I licked the blade clean of his blood. Slowly, as I continue to clean my blade, I watch his body melt into the pool of red liquid on the wooden floor before me. You know what they say, the first time is all it takes to become addicted.

Killing changes you. Once you’ve committed the unspeakable act there’s no turning back. Funny thing was, I knew from that moment on, I was hooked. Who would be my next victim? See after all, this wasn’t planned. It was an opportunity. I seized it! The thrill of taking a life had always been on the top of my “DO NOT SHARE” list. You know that list of dark sadistic things that you just don’t share. Everyone has one, but you don’t speak of it.

I had to wait, like a predator stalking my prey. Watching… waiting... wanting… until just the right… moment. Perhaps this is how Jack the Ripper felt as he chose his victims? And who would catch me? I would be leaving the country in a matter of days. No one would be shocked if I never returned. No one could blame me for walking away from my dead end job, my artistic failure. Again, they might miss him? Doubtful, I surprised him. He wasn’t scheduled to return from his trip for a few more days. You know the type, workaholic, and no next of kin. Only leaves the house for the office and returns back promptly each day. The cleaning lady was the only person who would find the body, and she wouldn’t be returning until Monday. But again, my darkness consumes me and the wheels start to spin.

How many ways can you dispose of a body? Too many! Too FUN! Just as I’m dreaming up new, sick and twisted ways to make a body disappear… BAM! “I guess he wasn’t dead after all,” are my thoughts as I’m falling quick, looking up at this bastard holding his throat with one hand and a large blunt object in the other. I’m Out.

I often wondered what it would be like to be tortured. Today I find out. I’m bound (hands & feet) and gagged. He’s sewn up his neck wound and licking the knife – there’s blood – while I have to watch. “See, I guess two can play this game,” he says. It’s my blood… apparently he’s cut me, ten places I can visibly see in my arms and legs. But from what I can feel there are several more than that.

“You should have made sure I was dead!” With a sick sadistic smile he edges closer to me. “Cause you’ll never leave here now.” He grabs my neck, kneels down and slides the blade down my left cheek. I can feel the blood spill out, downward, as it mixes with my tears. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” he whispers in my ear.

Again no one would blame me if I never came back.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Violently Sexy



Can something be violently sexy? This one is R-Rated. No really, it was a little too risqué for some sites that I contribute writing to. It's a little sex and violence and in the midnight hour such things never hurt anyone. Needless to say... there's nothing more interesting than someone reading my older work and being inspired by it. I'm simply awe-striken that anyone would take the time to pilfer among the older stories. Well, here is one of my darker inventions. If you don't like death or murderous fiction... I'll insist it's a pass. I was intrigued once by the darker human elements. A few of my favorite fellows nowadays insist I give it up, and I do find less time for it, but I can manage a few minutes here and there.


Enjoi?!
Kisses, m. 



Between my legs

Between my legs. Lies a hope for the future. Safety. Love. My insecurity? The reason he strayed is between her legs. The reason I stay is between mine. Infidelities he shouldn't have. We're both crying. Both aching. Knowing it’s too damn hard to watch him leave each time. Welcoming him back into my arms despite these flaws. Into the warmth, the depths where he’d linger too long. Falling and fading quickly, taking me down with him. Consumed by desire. A dark desire that is delicately hidden but ever so welcoming. Watching him savor the taste like drinking a hearty pinot noir as the flavor deepens into a meaningful experience. An exceptional wine, meant to be slowly enjoyed down to every drop.

Disappointment. My weakness. Inadequacies as a female. The one thing that sells you short as a woman is there between your legs. Never being taken seriously. As a woman it will keep you weak if you choose. Deprive you of love if you let it. Or allow the true nature within to become empowered by it. Controlled. Demanding. Eve in the Garden of Eden with that convincing apple. Damned is the man that believes he is manipulating a woman. A woman is a cool calculating creature never to be trusted or taken lightly despite what lies between her legs.

Waiting for him to return one more time. Deep down knowing that the game never changes, yet I’ve been foolish enough to continue this way. Sitting carefully, naked in the cold dark kitchen at the small table I trace my fingers carefully along the Formica surface. My bare skin is alive with the anticipation of his return. Element of surprise. It is my very intention to seduce and distract. The pressure of cool metal steel is nestled against the inside of my thigh as I wait. Looking down I can see the invention of death between my legs. Just as I continue to think he hasn’t returned soon enough the front door moves. Quickly my hand reaches in pushing aside the revolver where his eyes can not see. Nothing but my smile and open invitation.

Carefully the dark room masks his face as he moves closer to me. Only his eyes are visible as he makes his way forward. From the looks of it, he’s quite pleased to find me unclothed and honest. Standing over me his hands reach down into my hair and along my neck. An extraordinarily hard kiss as he makes an effort to lean in. The roughness of the moment is intoxicating as his grabbing hands continue to trail along my bare skin. Hands around my hips and in the small of my back as lips move downward, tracing their way from neck to breasts, then further. My ambitious efforts have me fumbling through his clothing, unclasping and removing, as he advances. As he reaches my navel I continue to reassure him by gently stroking his hair; beautiful hair, dark, thick and lush. Head movements find a balance as he nears my thighs. Tug at the back of his head to make eye contact. Lifting eyes meet mine in a piercing stare. Shh! He calms me with a smile before reaching between my legs.

Slowly I part my legs further and give way. Sliding the gun out from its hidden place, ever so silently, with a scoot of my thigh. Removing the cold steel instrument of death as he bends forward to kiss the inside of my thigh. Lips continue to softly caress my inner thigh as his hands come around to circle my hips and pull forward. Silently I find a place beneath his temple. Bare. Visible to my aim. Rocking my hips forward to meet his increasing movements, with my target in sight, I squeeze the trigger tenderly releasing death. Between my legs.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

A Good Woman




“A good woman is like a fine wine...” Said a man I once knew. I'm not sure what he was getting at when he was saying it but I'm reminded as I take another sip of the rouge.

Are you a good woman or a bad woman, Ms. M? Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do? I do drink a little still & smoke a cigar on occasion but whether I'm good or bad that depends on who you're asking and their...

Perception. 

I find it fascinating that people who don't bother to know you think they can label you... It's amazing what they'll come up without understanding their judgement. I've been on the ends of two rumors in the last six months and because I pitied these younger versions of myself, I didn't name names. Or lay blames. It's not their fault they don't have love within or bother to know me.

I'm hardly perfect. I wouldnt say a good woman or a bad woman. Mostly because it wouldn't be true. I don't hold out for love or look for it because I know it. I understand love, what it means to love & be in love with someone. There's no need to medicate my life with drugs or alcohol because solitude isn't the worst thing. So instead I'm always having fun every day & staying grateful. Here & again I meet a lovely fellow; I do keep me to myself for months sometimes. But when I do, I thoroughly enjoy the man who joins me and stays by my side... until we must part ways. I know it may seem callous but missing a man or his hands won't bring them back to me sooner or ever again. Sooner would be a lovely thought though... Instead of never. ;)

Like I said I'm not good or bad but I have had my past & vices. I don't regret them. And my truths I'll admit to... are the things you won't hear rumors about. For instance I've fallen in love with the wrong man twice in this life & ended a many years on&off again affair (with a single man) because a man didn't appreciate me anymore. I've also had an expensive brush with the law that included sobriety classes to remind me, that I lost control. There are more truths but these are what I'll share now...

So, I don't judge others for their past, I only relish in their accomplishments & future goals. Good or bad, you are who you are. Stop attacking yourself & you'll stop attacking others. If you can't stop comparing yourself to someone you won't see the beauty in yourself. Love yourself and you'll see what I see in you. :)

Here's a story that came about during a dark time in my life after I had a brush with the law. It's part fiction & a few pieces reality. Can you tell which is which?

Do you have fun?
Do you think you are good or bad?

Enjoy!
Kisses, m.


Drunks
(1-26-10)

When you go out with a drunk, you’ll notice how a drunk fills your glass so he can empty his own. As long as you’re drinking, drinking is okay. Two’s company. Drinking is fun. If there’s a bottle, even if your glass isn’t empty, a drunk, he’ll pour a little in your glass before he fills his own. Chuck Palahniuk.


We’ve all been there. Down and out. Too many excuses. Unable to see another other option. Just one more drink. It won’t hurt a thing. It’s early yet. I can handle my alcohol. Give me three more. For the good times. Let ‘em roll!

No one wants to be here. We all look as guilty as the next. Each and everyone in this room pretending we didn’t get smashed this last weekend. Some sit there quietly smoking avoiding eye contact. Others sit nervously biting their fingernails down to the nub. A few shakily drink another cup of coffee, most are on their fourth or fifth. 

The meeting will be starting shortly. Be early or be left out. Doors are locked promptly on the hour. There’s AA and then there’s this. Not only do I have to be sober nearly 48 hours prior but I have to pay for this. I didn’t ask for it. None of us here did. Yet here we sit, two days a week, week after week for as long as it takes. 

Sobriety? 

No. 

Redemption? 

Something like that. 

It’s court ordered deliverance. Not at all an out-patient program. There are no sponsors. You will find none of that ‘Hi, my name is Whiskey Jane. I’m an alcoholic’  business here. It’s all on the Honor System. Ask a drunk how honest he is, and he’ll tell you “Ask me when I’m sober?” 

Look around the room. It’s the usual suspects. Six of us circle up to form our regular group. 

Across from me sits Ginny. 
Over to her left is Boots followed by Maja. 
Bringing up the opposite is Mr. St. Allen and little Sonny Sinclair. 
I bring the close to the circle. Who am I? The little girl who knew better. 

Well here’s the part you hear about and see in movies. The simple give-and-take where we all share our weekly little tale before disappearing back to into everyday life. 

And this week we have a new counselor. Q. Devanders, a man-at-arms calling the corners and reintroducing us to each other. 

But we’re all well acquainted. Boots hosts a monthly poker game, two years and standing. Hard to believe it’s been a couple years but in the life of an alcoholic, memories can get a little fuzzy. 

Ginny kicks off the session tonight. 


Ginny. 

Ginny is back from jail. She spent nearly three weeks in the county lock-up. And I’ll say it’s not the nicest of places for a lady of her stature. When the police found her she was beating her old man with an electrical cord while setting fire to his golf clubs. Now domestic violence, assault or arson wasn’t what they arrested her for. She violated her court order agreement mandating her sobriety for 150 days while in the program. She had just finished a bottle of 90 Proof before going after her husband. Can’t blame her, that SOB probably deserved it this time. Philandering and stealing her money were at the top of a very long list of offences. 

But that wasn’t why she ended up here in the first place. 

Ginny has been here the longest. She wasn’t an old woman but definitely getting on in years. Frank is her husband of twenty years. They had acquired all the things you’d want in life, a house, children and a comfortable living. I can’t tell you when she started drinking, but I can tell you why she ended up here. 

Imagine a life set in suburban bliss just about fifteen years ago. The kids. The car pools. The weekly sewing circles and book clubs. In the beginning it was welcoming. A new home brought relief to a struggling couple wanting to bring their family together. And all too soon the monotony can set in. 

Ginny would find herself alone, day in and day out with the routine. She drops off the kids in the morning, shuffling through a thousand errands before picking up the kids in the afternoon and somewhere after she finds the time to amuse her husband. 

Routines can be tricky things. Before long, a glimpse of her husband becomes a few and far between rarity in the monotony, the errands become fewer and the children can find their own way home. 

What becomes of the bored housewife? Have a little drink here, another there. It’s a little something to pass the time. No one will notice. She keeps a bottle between the linens in the hall closet, another in the space behind the toilet and then there’s always the lonely flask hidden in the laundry room behind the bleach. What’s the harm? 

There’s always harm and it comes without warn. 

On that particular day there was no warning. 

The kids went off without a hitch, on time for the bus. No sign of her Mister for a couple days. A day as any other, she settled into the routine; the hourly swigs and shots. Until the call came; your children are sick and need to be sent home immediately. The four alarm shock swept into her body. There was no one else. Getting there seemed easy enough. Remembering the ride home was something else. 

According to the police report she had been 3x times over the legal limit when the accident happened. The children remained under observation while in the pediatric intensive care unit at St. Peters Hospital. Despite a few scrapes the other driver was alive. Ginny never remembered that day clearly. It took ten surgeries and a steel plate in her head to repair the damage from the accident. Steel rod from the construction truck she rear-ended partially wedged itself into her skull. Court called it the worst kind of parental negligence. 

After a decade of repeatedly failing multiple AA programs the court mandated these sessions. That was five years ago. 

Will she ever recover? Who’s to say?  Her battle wages on every week. 

Ginny has finished her say about the last week. It was another tough one. You could see that when she walked in today. She slipped. We all had. At least she’s still out on bail. The newbie man in session throws his trigger finger towards the next person, Boots.

Boots. 

What’s his scene? Well you guessed right if you think it has anything to do with shoes. Boots is an ex rock-n-roller. Well for the moment he is. Comebacks are a gamble but always worth a shot. He’s been here almost as long as Ginny. Four years, three months, seventeen days, and six hours. Unlike other people here Boots has actually been through a twelve step program. TWICE. But who’s counting? 

The Rock-n-Roll thing. How’s it play in? Here’s the catch, Boots has a trick with the ladies and it involves his worn down ol boots. The girls all loved the boot trick. Every town, every gig, a new pair winds up back at his hotel room. His beat up ol boots got him the notoriety and new pairs made quite the souvenirs. Collecting broads and booze while leaving a piece behind. Rock n Roll lifestyle. 

But that little parlor trick isn’t what cost good ol Boots his lifestyle. It was what happened afterwards. Not the first time, nor the second for that matter. Third times the charm. It don’t help that she wasn’t eighteen. Sexy at seventeen. Child laws work differently state by state. You can’t blame the fall on the girl. Age had nothing to do with it. Probably would’ve still been nailed if she was twenty-seven. 

Well there he was in the backseat of a Chrysler, with his fresh catch of jail bait. A boot in one hand, bottle in the other. Seventeen teen queen playing merry go round. More than ten sheets to the wind by the time they’d wrapped things up neither realized anything had happened… until afterwards. Now this little gal either got ambitious or she wasn’t paying attention. Either way it was completely out of his hands. Boots couldn’t put heads or tails together about the situation. The police certainly didn’t know what to make of it when they cleared off the scene on account of all the blood. Figured he was a pedophile trying to beat the hell out of the poor thing before accosting her with his footwear. 

Now don’t get ahead of yourself. That little girl didn’t die or anything. About ten stitches later she’ll be ready for the rodeo. 

But after that, well things didn’t look too good for Boots. From the amount of blood spread across that backseat and his level of BAC, the long arm of the law was definitely against him. Pleading with the court was a waste. The two prior 12-step programs didn’t cure his alcoholism and sure as hell didn’t do a damn bit for his case. Wound up here for a five year stint along with a consecutive run of community service after the trial. The whole mess put a hinder on his professional career. While this court mandated run certainly helps get his career back on track it won’t help this tiger change his stripes. 24-steps didn’t sober Boots up and sitting around reliving the good ol days with a bunch of drunks can’t be good for business either. 

That’s the difference here. No expects you to be sober. The only catch about intoxication and the program is… Don’t get caught. Getting caught means you forfeit a session or two and it still comes out of your pocket. Small price to pay for not choosing AA and highly exploitable. In fact I’ve spent more than one occasion helping Boots avoid his old sponsor while on a binge. And hot shots are always a fun way to kick off the poker nights. 

Boots started the poker nights a year after I joined the group. He calls it Outside Therapy. It was his answer to the indoor mindfuck that the weekly sessions provide. What people don’t understand about the sobriety is the need to relate to another drunk. It’s pretty damn frustrating to listen to a sober person who hasn’t been through it. Damn hard for the saints to look down on the sinners. Shit happens. It doesn’t make you a bad person. Boots certainly wasn’t a bad guy. Truthfully, none of us were bad for it. 

Boots is sitting there telling the last few lines of his weekend story. Drunk driving a speed boat in the Delta for kicks. Topless women and some of the old band joy riding while he tried to keep the boat afloat. As the story closes the boat flipped three times after hitting a houseboat and a few bones and spirits are broken. Good ol Boots. Definitely still a rocker to the end. 

From the expression on the ringleaders face, he’s not amused. Yet Q doesn’t press the issue. No questions. The new guy’s always come in with expectations. How they’re here to help us alcoholics find sobriety. Find peace. Find strength. Granted not all of us are alcoholics. But I haven’t gotten to that yet. Surprises are always the best part of being here. 

People always have a story. Most of the time it’s completely different than you might think. One of my favorite sayings is never judge a book by its cover. People shouldn’t be so quick to assume things. Cause you don’t know a person until they tell you a little about themselves. Keep a clear head when you meet someone for the first time. 

Not everything is what you think. Sometimes the most obvious story isn’t really what’s going on at all. Hidden meanings and innuendos aren’t always what they seem or about anything. The same can be said about the people sitting here. 

Maja is next. She’s been quiet tonight. While most of us are laughing at the others antics and giving a two cents worth to the stories, she’s been watching. Q pushes back his glasses and gives a nod in her direction. 

Maja

Maja has been struggling with recovery for five years. Drug abuse. She wasn’t just an alcoholic. Not in the sense that Ginny or Boots were. Drug addiction is another way to find yourself in this program. Maja has lived a difficult life for someone so young. A childhood spent bouncing around in foster care while her father was incarcerated. Thrown out of the house by her heroin addicted father she started turning tricks to survive when she was fifteen. 

At the ripe age of twenty-two she’s a veteran of the court system. In and out of juvie on more than one occasion. Multiple arrests included petty theft, possession, and prostitution before she was seventeen. Drinking sort of became a defense mechanism. A way to handle the urge to stick that needle in; a diversion from the John that wants more than he paid for a trick; a hope to get through the lonely nights sleeping on the streets. Alcohol merely provided a distraction, but the poison of the needle was her ally. She would have traded you a thousand bottles for just a stick in the arm. Heroin, the devil incarnate was worth every trick. Only thing worth surviving for every day was the rush. Money couldn’t buy anything valuable, but it could get you a sense of oblivion. 

Sitting in a void is exactly where they found Maja. Five minutes later would have been too late. Calming her soul with the sweet elixir of death. Coming to, in a pile of bodily filth is exactly where they discovered her body. The alley on 1st avenue between Jackson and Montpelier behind a delicatessen was almost her grave. The owner came out to toss the day old goods and caught a whiff of the deathly stench. He called the cops to remove the corpse on his back door step only to find out she wasn’t dead yet. 

For nearly a month she laid in a coma at St. Peters. Maja had never valued her life worth much before it happened. Something about nearly dying at the young age of 17 didn’t sit well on her mind. A couple of volunteers at the hospital encouraged her to join an outreach program for users. The group helped minors with a history of drug abuse. A halfway house provided shelter and counseling permitted you stayed clean. Like most junkies, she relapsed. Damn badly at that. Hell of a bender. 

Retuning to a life wandering the streets looking for another fix. Selling a couple tricks here and there for cash. Somewhere along the way, she’s cruising for death, not giving a fuck what comes or goes. In the span of a few weeks she’d managed to take anything that came her way. Eventually the downward spiral came to an end by shaking hands with the front end of a Cadillac. The aftermath was almost like slamming head first into a brick wall at 60 mph. She looked more like a ball of crumpled paper afterwards. 

The damage left her permanently scarred. Not what you’d call a pretty girl, but you could tell Maja was once attractive before the accident. The parole violation landed her behind bars for sixty days and a conviction. The court granted a conditional parole in exchange for mandatory drug and alcohol abuse counseling while returning to live in the halfway home. Four years later, she continues to struggle with sobriety and never misses a meeting. It’s hard to say what keeps her trying.  She never loses hope and continues to help others by counseling teens for the same non-profit group that gave her a second chance. 

Second chances are like flunking the fifth grade. You’ll learn something you missed the first time around. Everyone here is getting yet another chance. A second, third or perhaps fourth time on the wheel. Speaking of wheels, it’s time for another click over and the hand’s pointing in my direction. 

Crash! Over falls the coffee maker in the rear of the room. 

Mr. St. Allen, is surrounded by a sea of hot and black all over the floor. Before he can stoop down to clean it, Devanders lowers his eye glasses and motions him back to the group. 

The counselor’s seat rests like a 7th wheel crammed into the edge of the circle between Ginny and St. Allen. The helm shifts course again as the noise maker finds his seat. Eyes are all diverted and now the attention is placed to the opposite side of the group. 

Please share a few words… 

Mr. St. Allen


Mr. St. Allen. He’s a peculiar type of person. A saint among villains.  Mr. St. Allen isn’t a saint by any means. He’s the guy you never see coming. Come and gone before you missed your cue. 

There’s always a villain in every story, Mr. St. Allen just happens to be that kind of guy. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him. Think of the devious fellow in the old silent films, the one that’s dressed impeccably and tying the girl to the railroad tracks. 

Got it? 

That’s Mr. St. Allen. I’m almost waiting for him to show up one day strapped with a bomb made out of an old-fashioned alarm clock. 

He’s the type of character that will help out another human being, as long as it suits his needs in the end. Feed the parking meter just so he can steal your car after shoplifting in the store; help an old lady across the street just to steal her handbag; volunteering at the local hospitals to steal pharmaceuticals that in turn can be dealt out for profit. 

To everyone else these empty crimes seem harmless enough. Shows up every week, most of the time telling the same story; Weekly trips to the market, helping the handicapped to cross the street, and drinking gin every Sunday night because he misses his dead wife. In fact the wife’s a lie. Holding up the liquor store and beating the crippled seem more his speed. But you’ll never see it up close, unless you pay attention. 

One night after session, I caught him laying into a man with a cane. In the dark foggy atmosphere of the street it seemed more sinister than it was. Quietly I crept after him, passing the downed man in the shadows, until catching up at the bus stop. There he was calm, collected, whistling as he waited for the next line. Tipping his head slightly in my direction then went back to his song. 

The room sits through the St. Allen smokescreen with controlled calm. Everyone knows the villain has a darker story behind the facade but refuses to press further. Occasionally he reveals just a little more. Those are the weeks when it gets a bit interesting. Sometimes he’s stolen the cash prize from a raffle as the crowd cheers him on, or he’s walked out of a bakery with a dozen fresh from the oven without asking or paying. 

Needless to say the fellow is exceedingly despicable in a charming way. Despite knowing his day-to-day antics, Mr. St. Allen remains quite mysterious. He’s been here for almost three years and managed to dance around the issue of his past. 

We’ve all speculated about his back story on more than one occasion. 

Ginny thinks he’s an impolite brute that’s escaped from a country filled with backwards politics and bad manners. 

Boots has a different theory altogether. According to him it seems Mr. St. Allen used to be a car salesman. A terrible one at that. Sold a lemon to the wrong sort of fellow and had to run. No name. No papers. No existence. It wouldn’t matter who you were or the awful things you did if they couldn’t be traced. 

Sonny thinks he’s super awesome and that Boots is a king among gods. What do young people know anyway? 

Maja calls him a professional liar and thinks he lives a delusional existence. 

But I know better than that. 

On the whole it not one of it may be true, but the reality of the situation is far from a lie. Mr. St. Allen quite a terrifying puzzle all wrapped up in a nice exterior. Often times I believe he has the gift of hypnosis. Mesmerizing words and charming smiles. Keep your eye on the ball or pay the consequences. 

Mr. St. Allen is wrapping up his spiel about killing the pigeons in the park and tying the bodies to helium balloons over the weekend. As he’s embellishing the finer points of the story I can’t help but notice that there’s an 8mm at rest on his lap. Both hands are delicately caressing the gun while all the eyes in the group are watching his mouth move. So deep in my own thoughts I hadn’t realized he’d pulled out a gun. 

See what I mean? Watch the ball. 

Carefully he proceeds. Slowly raises his left leg and lifts up the hem to reveal a gun holster strapped to his calf. In goes the gun beneath the pants. Quietly his voice falls back into nothing. The group reawakens without witnessing a madman brandishing a gun. Cheering at the end of the unusual story is the small man of the group. 

Like me, Sonny can see through the smoke and mirrors. Maybe it’s cause he’s young or not so easily fooled. I can only imagine that Mr. St. Allen has reached a level of godlike awesomeness in Sonny’s book for the 8mm demonstration today. 

Believe it or not it wouldn’t be the first occasion where St. Allen showed up with a weapon. Some occasions he brings the knives in. Under the guise of talking about cooking out comes the sharp dagger-like object. Perhaps right after the eyes glaze over and then the pretext of food preparation begins…?  It’s a wonder sometimes no one has been injured. Harmless enough I suppose. 

I give a nod and wink in Sonny’s direction. He’s getting a bit rowdy in his seat and caught the attention of the group. Too much excitement has Sonny doing a one-handed handstand and singing “We Will Rock You” ala Queen substituting knee slaps for claps. Spotlight and attention grabbing antics aside it’s time to talk about the little champ of the group.

Sonny

The little man, Sonny Sinclair, is about twelve years old and been here less than six months. People don’t think very much about the youth in America. Well I’m the first to tell you otherwise. Sonny is without a doubt the oldest twelve year old I’ve ever met. 

Sonny’s been taking care of himself since he was five years old. Responsibly he handled a multitude of daily tasks. He saw himself off to and back from school everyday. Prepared his own dinner via the microwave oven as soon as he could read the dial. And more often than not paying the overdue bills his mother couldn’t remember. There’s something inspiring about a six year old writing a check when most thirty year olds don’t know how to sign one. 

Sonny was the child of a single mother who worked three jobs to keep a roof over their heads. An ambitious and savvy mind wrapped up in a small body. It’s no wonder things went the way they did. By the age of eight, Sonny was delivering newspapers and making his own money. Extra money didn’t hurt, especially when mom didn’t remember about groceries. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what happens when you forget to watch your kids. Even the best child can go wrong. 

On top of the world that Atlas carries there was the possibility of one more thing to bring it down. Even the lightest feather can topple the weight of the world. At age ten, Sonny’s flunking the sixth grade. Too many questions. No one to talk with at home. Not knowing to ask for help, he carries the burden alone. Alone, he was always looking for answers. 

Most kids imitate what they see around them. In instances of dire emotional need his mom always took out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, especially when she wanted answers. He would watch as a wave of relief would wash over her. Calmness and the tears would slip away and she’d love him so much more. Sure enough the first time it tasted so bad, he threw up. Persistent in his need it didn’t stop him. 

Everyday afterschool, the little overachiever pursued the answers at the bottom of the bottle. Unlike most adults, Sonny never stopped his regular routine. He continued to attend school, which improved despite the drinking, delivering newspapers and making the regular bill payments. If it wasn’t for the slip up with the newspapers no one would have known. For one week he delivered evening editions to the morning customers without noticing the mix-up. 

Several complaints led to a visit from the managing editor one evening when Sonny was alone. Alone, he was sitting sound asleep with his glass of comfort when the unlocked door swung wide to reveal the careful little secret. Needless to say he was fired, after the editor reported the incident. But it wasn’t a bad thing. 

Sonny’s mom brought him to the group after Alateen didn’t exactly fit. It’s no wonder he’s a mixture of maturity within youth. Now she only works two jobs in order to spend evenings at home, while trying to help her son work through this setback. There’s always hope in youth, certainly with Sonny. 

Brightest future ahead for a most remarkable young man. And he’s a remarkable young man indeed. 

Sonny’s spent a half hour reciting the last week of algebra class homework to the group while balancing on his head. Apparently there’s a new girl in class that he likes. By like, I mean, he threw a ball of paper at her while saying something about her face being lame. 

Devanders clears his throat as Sonny pauses briefly. The master of the house is quite tired and the session is winding down. Sonny is being motioned to get down. Sadly the clown makes his way right side up. After he complies, I shoot him another wink and smile. Ginny claps for him once more. Boots fires at him with an imaginary pistol. Maja rolls her eyes while Mr. St. Allen sits too quietly. 

The pencil on the clipboard beats in my direction. Stella Andrews

Why yes. That’s me.

Stella.

The one whose mama said ‘Don’t’ to every little thing. And I listened. For so many years I heeded every word and obeyed every warning like it was law. But where’s the fun in that? 

I wasn’t looking for a good time when it found me. Like love and trouble, it seemed to come when I wasn’t looking. Somehow the party came and never stopped. I spent a couple of years having a blast. The parties, the clubs, and the people. 

Who’s who among the crowds. 
Nights out with the girls. 
Drinking champagne like it was water. 
Dancing until dawn.  
Owning the night like there’s nothing else. 

The nights never started early enough and the days were always too long. Of course there was work, but then there were the parties. And they happened to be wonderful.

 I was never an alcoholic, and can’t say that I am now. Don’t worry it isn’t denial. Counseling teaches you the difference. 

Fond of a glass here and there, I never enjoyed being tanked. Well not as much since those days. Those days have come and gone. The party does in fact stop. And it comes to screeching to a DEAD halt. Watch out. 

Part of me thinks it was for the best.

However, surviving the demise of my old life was harder than getting through the initial steps of recovery. 

Ever been arrested? Make sure you were having fun first. When the police pulled me out of the car I wasn’t injured. Still drunk and pissed off. The front end of my car was wrapped around a service pole after I flipped it five times down a hill. Coming home from the party of the century and overcorrected. 

Worst part of it for me? At the time was the destruction of my shoes and dress. Asshole made me walk the line in three inches of mud, in turn ruining in my favorite pair of Manolo’s. Falling twice in the mud soiled the dress. I never did salvage the shoes or the dress. The process of the situation was less than comfortable. Besides, getting frisked in skin tight anything is a pass for any girl. 

Where was I going to stick a weapon? You better believe I put up a protest. Soon enough I was cuffed and put in the back of the car where I used my cell to call everyone I knew to get me out of jail. They couldn’t find a weapon, but the dumb ass cops didn’t know where to look for the phone. Once I was booked there was no more phone, no more calls. A night in the drunk tank. 

Sobriety is a funny thing. Clearly you can see the people on your side. No one came to get me that night. Not that it matters, in the morning you’re free to go. Two very humiliating phone calls later I got a cab ride home and few days off to clear up my affairs. 

Several court costs, lawyers fees, and miscellaneous expenses later, I’m broke. Apparently taking out a service pole will cost a pretty penny. 

Several months later, I’m a social pariah. No boyfriend, he ran on sight of the accident. In fact he kept on driving that night after I went around the bend. And the social invites have dwindled. 

No more anything. 

My world winded down. 

On account of my parole agreement I’m stuck in these court ordered sessions for three years, which isn’t the worst thing in life. Sometimes this can be amusing. My life spent in recovery isn’t nearly as painful as the others. When it happened I wasn’t remorseful. Afterwards, I couldn’t begin to beg for my life back. 

Truthfully I wasn’t an alcoholic then, but my life was out of control. If it didn’t happen then, it would have happened later. Maybe I wouldn’t have lived to see another day. And now I like to think I’m a better person for it. Things are always more complicated than we would have planned. 

Week to week, every day is a complicated turn in life. Courteously I’ve spared the group any wild antics as I don’t really think the new guy could handle anymore and I don’t have any to share this week. The world will live without another drunk’s wild night. 

Two and half hours later, watching the room seems like a lesson in calm. Everyone has finally settled down. It’s a miracle since there are nights when being here makes you want to hit the bottle. Especially when Ginny’s absent cause of a relapse, Maja is having a hard time coping, or Sonny’s mom can’t be home on time. When the nights are filled with the tales of despair it’s hard not to find doubt within. But I suppose any drunk will just make an excuse to take a drink. 

Session is over. There are no more guilty faces. We’ve purged our sins and made confession for the evil that men do. Well all of us except Mr. St. Allen. There’s no hope for that one. 

The room comes to life with sound as the doors are unlocking. Freedom. Everyone wants out. 

Sonny is standing on the back of his chair before jumping on his skateboard. Boots announces a party this weekend at Olly’s Bar on his way out. Ginny and Maja are exchanging hugs as they stand in the doorway. And I’m making sure St. Allen leaves before me. 

Almost as quickly as we shuffled in, the group disbands and leaves the room. Any closer to redemption? Probably not. Only if you believe those two days a week can cleanse the soul. 

Deliverance doesn’t come just because its court ordered. Unlike AA this isn’t free and there’s no follow up. No one’s going to call you and make sure you’re staying on the line. You’re the only one you answer to in the morning. 

Will I stay sober? Ask me again next week.