Johnny Walker Writing

I’m a little bit drunk.

Not a lot. I could probably drive safely, and I can certainly close my eyes and touch my nose, but I’m a bit buzzed.

I’m relying on autocorrect.

I can close my eyes and feel a fuzzy peace.

I’m not worried.

I’m not anxious about doing or neglecting.

I’m not inhibited.

Nothing hurts.

Another glass would take me too far over the edge, into the place where it is easy to stumble and weep and remember regrets; to the place where one says too much and speaks too loudly, acting like a fool and causing shame and pain.

I’m not there. I’m fuzzy and sleepy, ready to close my eyes and able to ignore the voices in my head, who have less to say than when I’m sober.

My only concern is that I’m growing rather fond of this state. I only have one drink a night, but I’m becoming reliant on it. There’s good reason to believe I’m genetically predisposed to alcoholism; am I taking too great a risk?

I’m buZed though so I don’t care.

Oh, I do.

I never let go completely.

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