Two Bottles of Red Wine and Seven Years of Self-Loathing

I’ve had one and a half bottles of cheap red wine I picked up at the locally owned liquor store around the corner. It makes me think of the artist I dated before I moved to LA, of the guy that called me fat while I sat half-naked on his countertop, of the fact I have drained these vessels without assistance after weeks of drinking nothing but water, coffee and homemade juice. There’s not much solace to be found in loneliness, though it’s cheaper than keeping a man on hand to share it with. 

Tonight I feel fat but strong, smart but silent, alone but unencumbered by the weight of supporting another person’s emotional burdens. At least I have that, right? I write about emotions and drugs and depression a lot because they are topics I am familiar with. Rarely do I share my sentiments on these subjects with friends; they have better things to do, and they are not shrinks. Nobody wants to listen to you cry unless they can offer solace, nobody wants to function as solace or savior—and nobody, especially not me, want to be seen as weak.

If I finish the second bottle of wine I have put on the floor—as if I could forget about it by leaving it in the kitchen—I will be late to work tomorrow. Not only will I be late, but I will have a headache and border on intolerable toward my coworkers. Hangovers are not particularly becoming on anyone, but as the product of two persons that have been sober for nearly sixty years, I am particularly dislikable the morning after. This has more to do with silence than crankiness, but I’m sure the scent and leftover sentiment from the night before does nothing to make me more appeasing as a business partner.

Whomever’s really responsible for the idea of writing drunk and editing sober can suck my nonexistent D; neither is profitable or suiting for a fully grown woman, unless you come equipped with an expense account - or a trust fund. I shouldn’t be writing while intoxicated - I am no Hemmingway. My last name does begin with the letter ‘H’ - does that still count for something? I didn’t finish college, can’t recite from the dictionary. and would prove a pathetic member of your debate team. I can’t make my point without swearing, can’t work out without hating myself just a little, can’t look on the bright side to save my life.

I can meet men but not have interest in them, write things but not feel confidence as a result, disagree with people I care about without wanting to engage in criticism. What does any of that mean?

I look at photos of past incarnations of myself and feel a kinship but no relation to the girl pictured. I am always changing, always different, always on my way to being someone else. 

Someone better? I don’t know, but I hope so.

Sip, chug, drink, swallow. I’m already sorry for the intolerable person I will be tomorrow. I have to meet and defend myself against editors tomorrow. I suspect they won’t like me, though they’ve already paid me. Is this a rant yet? Are both of those bottles on my floor empty? (Nearly.)

April cannot come soon enough; the end of my saddened, Woody Allen existence is just on the horizon and I can taste it, though my bones can’t feel it. Not yet, not yet, not yet.